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 University of California • Berkeley 
 
 From the Collection of 
 
 Joseph Z. Todd 
 
 Gift of 
 
 Hatherly B. Todd 
 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 Vol. XX 
 
 WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 THE PLAYS 56 FABLES 
 
LETTERS AND MISCEL- 
 LANIES OF ROBERT 
 LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 vv 
 
 TH£ lis 
 
 .TZWQAVWA'J VZHHJ .a -i<\ sv.rs)tC\ 
 
 SE PUBLISHED IN 
 NEW YORK BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S 
 SONS $ ^ 1907 t 
 
" Kirstie, with a n/sh-/igb/ in her hntui, stole in> 
 
 1.717 tt." 
 
 l>raun IVHST CUNEDINST. 
 
LETTERS AND MISCEL- 
 LANIES OF ROBERT 
 LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 w 
 
 EIR OF HERMISTON 
 THE PLAYS t FABLES 
 
 i PUBLISHED IN 
 NEW YORK BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S 
 
 SONS $ t 1907 S6 
 
Copyright, 1896, by 
 Stone & Kimball. 
 
 Copyright, 1896, by 
 
 CflARLES ScRIBNER's SoNS. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WEIR OF HERMISTON i 
 
 An Unfinished Romance. 
 
 THE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND ROBERT 
 LOUIS STEVENSON 167 
 
 FABLES , . . , 447 
 
IVEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEDICATION ix 
 
 INTRODUCTORY xi 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR i 
 
 II FATHER AND SON 19 
 
 HI IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN 
 
 JOPP 27 
 
 IV OPINION OF THE BENCH 45 
 
 V WINTER ON THE MOORS: 
 
 I At Hermiston 56 
 
 II KiRSTiE 60 
 
 III A Border Family 64 
 
 VI A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK ... 84 
 
 VII ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 114 
 
 VIII A NOCTURNAL VISIT 135 
 
 IX AT THE WEAVER'S STONE 144 
 
 EDITORIAL NOTE 153 
 
 GLOSSARY OF SCOTTISH WORDS 163 
 
 vii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEACON BRODIE '. . I73 
 
 BEAU AUSTIN 277 
 
 ADMIRAL GUINEA 335 
 
 ROBERT MACAIRE 399 
 
 FABLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I THE PERSONS OF THE TALE 447 
 
 II THE SINKING SHIP 452 
 
 III THE TWO MATCHES 455 
 
 IV THE SICK MAN AND THE FIREMAN 457 
 
 V THE DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER 458 
 
 VI THE PENITENT 459 
 
 VII THE YELLOW PAINT 460 
 
 VIII THE HOUSE OF ELD 463 
 
 IX THE FOUR REFORMERS 471 
 
 X THE MAN AND HIS FRIEND . 472 
 
 XI THE READER 473 
 
 XII THE CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER 475 
 
 XIII THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER 476 
 
 XIV THE CARTHORSES AND THE SADDLEHORSE . . 478 
 XV THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG 479 
 
 XVI SOMETHING IN IT 480 
 
 XVII FAITH, HALF-FAITH, AND NO FAITH AT ALL . 484 
 
 XVIII THE TOUCHSTONE 487 
 
 XIX THE POOR THING 49^ 
 
 XX THE SONG OF THE MORROW 503 
 
 viii 
 
TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 t saw rain falling and the rainbow drawn 
 On Lammermuir. Hearkening I heard again 
 In my precipitous city beaten bells 
 Winnow the keen sea wind. And here afar, 
 Intent on my own race and place, I wrote. 
 
 Take thou the writing : thine it is. For who 
 Burnished the sword, blew on the drowsy coal, 
 Held still the target higher, chary of praise 
 And prodigal of counsel — who but thou? 
 So now, in the end, if this the least be good, 
 If any deed be done, if any fire 
 Burn in the imperfect page, the praise be thine. 
 
INTRODUCTORY 
 
 In the wild end of a moorland parish, far out of the sight of any house, 
 there stands a cairn among the heather, and a little by east of it, in 
 the going down of the braeside, a monument with some verses half 
 defaced. It was here that Claverhouse shot with his own hand the 
 Praying Weaver of Balweary, and the chisel of Old Mortality has 
 clinked on that lonely gravestone. Public and domestic history have 
 thus marked with a bloody finger this hollow among the hills; and 
 since the Cameronian gave his life there, two hundred years ago, in a 
 glorious folly, and without comprehension or regret, the silence of 
 the moss has been broken once again by the report of firearms and 
 the cry of the dying. 
 
 The Deil's Hags was the old name. But the piace is now called 
 Francie's Cairn. For a while it was told that Francie walked. Aggie 
 Hogg met him in the gloaming by the caimside, and he spoke to her, 
 with chattering teeth, so that his words were lost. He pursued Rob 
 Todd (if anyone could have believed Robbie) for the space of half a mile 
 with pitiful entreaties. But the age is one of incredulity ; these supersti- 
 tious decorations speedily fell off; and the facts of the story itself, like 
 the bones of a giant buried there and half dug up, survived, naked and 
 imperfect, in the memory of the scattered neighbours. To this day, of 
 winter nights, when the sleet is on the window and the cattle are 
 quiet in the byre, there will be told again, amid the silence of the 
 young and the additions and corrections of the old, the tale of the 
 Justice-Clerk and of his son, young Hermiston, that vanished from 
 men's knowledge; of the two Kirsties and the Four Black Brothers 
 of the Cauldstaneslap; and of Frank Innes, "the young fool advo- 
 cate," that came into these moorland parts to find his destiny. 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 THE Lord Justice-Clerk was a stranger in that part 
 of the country ; but his lady wife was known there 
 from a child, as her race had been before her. The old 
 ** riding Rutherfords of Hermiston," of whom she was 
 the last descendant, had been famous men of yore, ill 
 neighbours, ill subjects, and ill husbands to their wives 
 though not their properties. Tales of them were rife 
 for twenty miles about; and their name was even 
 printed in the page of our Scots histories, not always to 
 their credit. One bit the dust at Flodden; one was 
 hanged at his peel door by James the Fifth; another fell 
 dead in a carouse with Tom Dalzell; while a fourth 
 (and that was Jean's own father) died presiding at a 
 Hell-Fire Club, of which he was the founder. There 
 were many heads shaken in Crossmichael at that judg- 
 ment; the more so as the man had a villainous reputa- 
 tion among high and low, and both with the godly and 
 the worldly. At that very hour of his demise, he had 
 ten going pleas before the session, eight of them op- 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 pressive. And the same doom extended even to his 
 agents; his grieve, that had been his right hand in 
 many a left-hand business, being cast from his horse 
 one night and drowned in a peat-hag on the Kye skairs; 
 and his very doer (although lawyers have long spoons) 
 surviving him not long, and dying on a sudden in a 
 bloody flux. 
 
 In all these generations, while a male Rutherford was 
 in the saddle with his lads, or brawling in a change- 
 house, there would be always a white-faced wife im- 
 mured at home in the old peel or the later mansion- 
 house. It seemed this succession of martyrs bided 
 long, but took their vengeance in the end, and that was 
 in the person of the last descendant, Jean. She bore 
 the name of the Rutherfords, but she was the daughter 
 of their trembling wives. At the first she was not 
 wholly without charm. Neighbours recalled in her, as 
 a child, a strain of elfm wilfulness, gentle little mutinies, 
 sad little gaieties, even a morning gleam of beauty that 
 was not to be fulfilled. She withered in the growing, 
 and (whether it was the sins of her sires or the sorrows of 
 her mothers) came to her maturity depressed, and, as it 
 were, defaced ; no blood of life in her, no grasp or gaiety ; 
 pious, anxious, tender, tearful, and incompetent. 
 
 It was a wonder to many that she had married — 
 seeming so wholly of the stuff that makes old maids. 
 But chance cast her in the path of Adam Weir, then the 
 new Lord-Advocate, a recognised, risen man, the con- 
 queror of many obstacles, and thus late in the day be- 
 ginning to think upon a wife. He was one who looked 
 rather to obedience than beauty, yet it would seem he 
 was struck with her at the first look. " Wha's she ? " 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 he said, turning to his host; and, when he had been 
 told, ** Ay, "says he, "she looks menseful. She minds 
 
 me "; and then, after a pause (which some have 
 
 been daring enough to set down to sentimental recol- 
 lections), "Is she releegious?" he asked, and was 
 shortly after, at his own request, presented. The ac- 
 quaintance, which it seems profane to call a courtship^ 
 was pursued with Mr. Weir's accustomed industry, and 
 was long a legend, or rather a source of legends, in thq 
 Parliament House. He was described coming, rosy 
 with much port, into the drawing-room, walking direct 
 up to the lady, and assailing her with pleasantries, to 
 which the embarrassed fair one responded, in what 
 seemed a kind of agony, "Eh, Mr. Weir!" or "O, Mr. 
 Weir!" or "Keep me, Mr. Weir!" On the very eve 
 of their engagement it was related that one had drawn 
 near to the tender couple, and had overheard the lady 
 cry out, with the tones of one who talked for the sake 
 of talking, "Keep me, Mr. Weir, and what became of 
 him ? " and the profound accents of the suitor's reply, 
 " Haangit, mem, haangit." The motives upon either 
 side were much debated. Mr. Weir must have sup- 
 posed his bride to be somehow suitable; perhaps he 
 belonged to that class of men who think a weak head 
 the ornament of women — an opinion invariably pun- 
 ished in this life. Her descent and her estate were be- 
 yond question. Her wayfaring ancestors and her liti- 
 gious father had done well by Jean. There was ready 
 money and there were broad acres, ready to fall wholly 
 to the husband, to lend dignity to his descendants, and 
 to himself a title, when he should be called upon the 
 Bench. On the side of Jean there was perhaps some 
 
 3 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 fascination of curiosity as to this unknown male animal 
 that approached her with the roughness of a ploughman 
 and the aplomb of an advocate. Being so trenchantly 
 opposed to all she knew, loved or understood, he may 
 well have seemed to her the extreme, if scarcely the 
 ideal, of his sex. And besides, he was an ill man to re- 
 fuse. A little over forty at the period of his marriage, 
 he looked already older, and to the force of manhood 
 added the senatorial dignity of years; it was, perhaps, 
 with an unreverend awe, but he was awful. The 
 Bench, the Bar, and the most experienced and reluctant 
 witness, bowed to his authority — and why not Jeannie 
 Rutherford ? 
 
 The heresy about foolish women is always punished, 
 I have said, and Lord Hermiston began to pay the pen- 
 alty at once. His house in George Square was wretch- 
 edly ill-guided ; nothing answerable to the expense of 
 maintenance but the cellar, which was his own private 
 care. When things went wrong at dinner, as they 
 continually did, my lord would look up the table at his 
 wife: "I think these broth would be better to swim in 
 than to sup." Or else to the butler: " Here, M'Killop, 
 awa' wi' this Raadical gigot — tak' it to the French, man, 
 and bring me some puddocks! It seems rather a sore 
 kind of a business that I should be all day in Court 
 haanging Raadicals, and get nawthing to my denner." 
 Of course this was but a manner of speaking, and he 
 had never hanged a man for being a Radical in his life; 
 the law, of which he was the faithful minister, directing 
 otherwise. And of course these growls were in the 
 nature of pleasantry, but it was of a recondite sort; and 
 uttered as they were in his resounding voice, and com- 
 
 4 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 merited on by that expression which they called in the 
 Parliament House " Hermiston's hanging face" — they 
 struck mere dismay into the wife. She sat before him 
 speechless and fluttering; at each dish, as at a fresh or- 
 deal, her eye hovered toward my lord's countenance 
 and fell again ; if he but ate in silence, unspeakable re- 
 lief was her portion ; if there were complaint, the world 
 was darkened. She would seek out the cook, who 
 was always her sister in the Lord. *' O, my dear, this 
 is the most dreidful thing, that my lord can never be 
 contented in his own house!" she would begin; and 
 weep and pray with the cook; and then the cook would 
 pray with Mrs. Weir; and the next day's meal would 
 never be a penny the better — and the next cook (when 
 she came) would be worse, if anything, but just as pi- 
 ous. It was often wondered that Lord Hermiston bore 
 it as he did ; indeed he was a stoical old voluptuary, 
 contented with sound wine and plenty of it. But there 
 were moments when he overflowed. Perhaps half a 
 dozen times in the history of his married life — "Here! 
 tak' it awa', and bring me a piece bread and kebbuck! " 
 he had exclaimed, with an appalling explosion of his 
 voice and rare gestures. None thought to dispute or 
 to make excuses; the service was arrested; Mrs. Weir 
 sat at the head of the table whimpering without dis- 
 guise; and his lordship opposite munched his bread and 
 cheese in ostentatious disregard. Once only, Mrs. 
 Weir had ventured to appeal. He was passing her 
 chair on his way into the study. 
 
 *' O, Edom ! " she wailed, in a voice tragic with tears, 
 and reaching out to him both hands, in one of which 
 she held a sopping pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 5 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 He paused and looked upon her with a face of wrath, 
 into which there stole, as he looked, a twinkle of 
 humor. 
 
 ' ' Noansense ! " he said. ** You and your noansense ! 
 What do I want with a Christian faim'ly? I want 
 Christian broth I Get me a lass that can plain boil a 
 potato, if she was a whure off the streets." And with 
 these words, which echoed in her tender ears like blas- 
 phemy, he had passed on to his study and shut the 
 door behind him. 
 
 Such was the housewifery in George Square. It was 
 better at Hermiston, where Kirstie Elliot, the sister of a 
 neighbouring bonnet-laird, and an eighteenth cousin of 
 the lady's, bore the charge of all, and kept a trim house 
 and a good country table. Kirstie was a woman in a 
 thousand, clean, capable, notable; once a moorland 
 Helen, and still comely as a blood horse and healthy as 
 the hill wind. High in flesh and voice and colour, she 
 ran the house with her whole intemperate soul, in a 
 bustle, not without buffets. Scarce more pious than 
 decency in those days required, she was the cause of 
 many an anxious thought and many a tearful prayer to 
 Mrs. Weir. Housekeeper and mistress renewed the 
 parts of Martha and Mary; and though with a pricking 
 conscience, Mary reposed on Martha's strength as on a 
 rock. Even Lord Hermiston held Kirstie in a particular 
 regard. There were few with whom he unbent so 
 gladly, few whom he favoured with so many pleasan- 
 tries. " Kirstie and me maun have our joke," he would 
 declare, in high good-humor, as he buttered Kirstie's 
 scones and she waited at table. A man who had no 
 need either of love or of popularity, a keen reader of 
 
 6 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 men and of events, there was perhaps only one truth 
 for which he was quite unprepared: he would have 
 been quite unprepared to learn that Kirstie hated him. 
 He thought maid and master were well matched; hard, 
 handy, healthy, broad Scots folk, without a hair of non- 
 sense to the pair of them. And the fact was that she 
 made a goddess and an only child of the effete and tear- 
 ful lady; and even as she waited at table her hands 
 would sometimes itch for my lord's ears. 
 
 Thus, at least, when the family were at Hermiston, 
 not only my lord, but Mrs. Weir too, enjoyed a holi- 
 day. Free from the dreadful looking-for of the mis- 
 carried dinner, she would mind her seam, read her piety 
 books, and take her walk (which was my lord's or- 
 ders), sometimes by herself, sometimes with Archie, 
 the only child of that scarce natural union. The child 
 was her next bond to life. Her frosted sentiment 
 bloomed again, she breathed deep of life, she let loose 
 her heart, in that society. The miracle of her mother- 
 hood was ever new to her. The sight of the little man 
 at her skirt intoxicated her with the sense of power, 
 and froze her with the consciousness of her responsi- 
 bility. She looked forward, and, seeing him in fancy 
 grow up and play his diverse part on the world's thea- 
 tre, caught in her breath and lifted up her courage with 
 a lively effort. It was only with the child that she for- 
 got herself and was at moments natural; yet it was 
 only with the child that she had conceived and man- 
 aged to pursue a scheme of conduct. Archie was to 
 be a great man and a good; a minister if possible, a 
 saint for certain. She tried to engage his mind upon 
 her favourite books, Rutherford's *' Letters," Scougal's 
 
 7 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 ** Grace Abounding," and the like. It was a common 
 practice of hers (and strange to remember now) that 
 she would carry the child to the Deil's Hags, sit with 
 him on the Praying Weaver's stone and talk of the 
 Covenanters till their tears ran down. Her view of 
 history was wholly artless, a design in snow and ink ; 
 upon the one side, tender innocents with psalms upon 
 their lips; upon the other, the persecutors, booted, 
 bloody-minded, flushed with wine; a suffering Christ, 
 a raging Beelzebub. Persecutor was a word that 
 knocked upon the woman's heart; it was her highest 
 thought of wickedness, and the mark of it was on her 
 house. Her great-great-grandfather had drawn the 
 sword against the Lord's anointed on the field of Rul- 
 lion Green, and breathed his last (tradition said) in the 
 arms of the detestable Dalzell. Nor could she blind 
 herself to this, that had they lived in these old days, 
 Hermiston himself would have been numbered along- 
 side of Bloody MacKenzie and the politic Lauderdale 
 and Rothes, in the band of God's immediate enemies. 
 The sense of this moved her to the more fervour; she 
 had a voice for that name of persecutor that thrilled 
 in the child's marrow; and when one day the mob 
 hooted and hissed them all in my lord's traveling car- 
 riage, and cried, "Down with the persecutor! down 
 with Hanging Hermiston!" and mamma covered her 
 eyes and wept, and papa let down the glass and looked 
 out upon thejabble with his droll formidable face, bit- 
 ter and smiling, as they said he sometimes looked 
 when he gave sentence, Archie was for the moment 
 too much amazed to be alarmed, but he had scarce got 
 his mother by herself before his shrill voice was raised 
 
 8 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 demanding an explanation ; why had they called papa 
 a persecutor? 
 
 "Keep me, my precious!" she exclaimed. **Keep 
 me, my dear! this is poleetical. Ye must never ask me 
 anything poleetical, Erchie. Your faither is a great man, 
 my dear, and it's no for me or you to be judging him. 
 It would be telling us all if we behaved ourselves in our 
 several stations the way your faither does in his high 
 office ; and let me hear no more of any such disrespect- 
 ful and undutiful questions ! No that you meant to be 
 undutiful, my lamb; your mother kens that — she kens 
 it well, dearie! " and so slid off to safer topics, and left 
 on the mind of the child an obscure but ineradicable 
 sense of something wrong. 
 
 Mrs. Weir's philosophy of life was summed in one 
 expression — tenderness. In her view of the universe, 
 which was all lighted up with a glow out of the doors 
 of hell, good people must walk there in a kind of ecstasy 
 of tenderness. The beasts and plants had no souls; 
 they were here but for a day, and let their day pass 
 gently! And as for the immortal men, on what black, 
 downward path were many of them wending, and to 
 what a horror of an immortality ! ** Are not two spar- 
 rows," *' Whosoever shall smite thee," "God sendeth 
 His rain," "Judge not that ye be not judged" — these 
 texts made her body of divinity; she put them on in 
 the morning with her clothes and lay down to sleep 
 with them at night; they haunted her like a favourite 
 air, they clung about her like a favourite perfume. 
 Their minister was a marrowy expounder of the law, 
 and my lord sat under him with relish; but Mrs. Weir 
 respected him from far off; heard him (like the cannon 
 
 9 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 of a beleaguered city) usefully booming outside on the 
 dogmatic ramparts; and meanwhile, within and out of 
 shot, dwelt in her private garden, which she watered 
 with grateful tears. It seems strange to say of this 
 colourless and ineffectual woman, but she was a true 
 enthusiast, and might have made the sunshine and the 
 glory of a cloister. Perhaps none but Archie knew she 
 could be eloquent; perhaps none but he had seen her — 
 her colour raised, her hands clasped or quivering — 
 glow with gentle ardour. There is a corner of the 
 policy of Hermiston, where you come suddenly in view 
 of the summit of Black Fell, sometimes like the mere 
 grass top of a hill, sometimes (and this is her own ex- 
 pression) like a precious jewel in the heavens. On 
 such days, upon the sudden view of it, her hand would 
 tighten on the child's fingers, her voice rise like a song. 
 '*! to the hills! " she would repeat. "And O, Erchie, 
 are nae these like the hills of Naphtali ? " and her easy 
 tears would flow. 
 
 Upon an impressionable child the effect of this con- 
 tinual and pretty accompaniment to life was deep. 
 The woman's quietism and piety passed on to his dif- 
 ferent nature undiminished; but whereas in her it was 
 a native sentiment, in him it was only an implanted 
 dogma. Nature and the child's pugnacity at times re- 
 volted. A cad from the Potterrow once struck him in 
 the mouth ; he struck back, the pair fought it out in the 
 back stable lane towards the Meadows, and Archie re- 
 turned with a considerable decline in the number of his 
 front teeth, and unregenerately boasting of the losses 
 of the foe. It was a sore day for Mrs. Weir; she wept 
 and prayed over the infant backslider until my lord was 
 
 10 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 due from court, and she must resume that air of tremu- 
 lous composure with which she always greeted him. 
 The judge was that day in an observant mood, and re- 
 marked upon the absent teeth. 
 
 "I am afraid Erchie will have been fechting with 
 some of they blagyard lads," said Mrs. Weir. 
 
 My lord's voice rang out as it did seldom in the pri- 
 vacy of his own house. " I'll have nonn of that, sir! " 
 he cried. " Do you hear me .? — nonn of that! No son 
 of mine shall be speldering in the glaur with any dirty 
 raibble." 
 
 The anxious mother was grateful for so much sup- 
 port; she had even feared the contrary. And that night 
 when she put the child to bed — "Now, my dear, 3^e 
 see!" she said, "I told you what your faither would 
 think of it, if he heard ye had fallen into this dreidful 
 sin ; and let you and me pray to God that ye may be 
 keepit from the like temptation or stren'thened to resist 
 it!" 
 
 The womanly falsity of this was thrown away. Ice 
 and iron cannot be welded; and the points of view of 
 the Justice-Clerk and Mrs. Weir were not less unassim- 
 ilable. The character and position of his father had long 
 been a stumbling-block to Archie, and with every year 
 of his age the difficulty grew more instant. The man 
 was mostly silent; when he spoke at all, it was to 
 speak of the things of the world, always in a worldly 
 spirit, often in language that the child had been schooled 
 to think coarse, and sometimes with words that he 
 knew to be sins in themselves. Tenderness was the 
 first duty, and my lord was invariably harsh. God was 
 love; the name of my lord (to all who knew him) was 
 
 II 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 fear. In the world, as schematised for Archie by his 
 mother, the place was marked for such a creature. 
 There were some whom it was good to pity and well 
 (though very likely useless) to pray for; they were 
 named reprobates, goats, God's enemies, brands for the 
 burning; and Archie tallied every mark of identification, 
 and drew the inevitable private inference that the Lord 
 Justice-Clerk was the chief of sinners. 
 
 The mother's honesty was scarce complete. There 
 was one influence she feared for the child and still se- 
 cretly combated; that was my lord's; and half uncon- 
 sciously, half in a wilful blindness, she continued to un- 
 dermine her husband with his son. As long as Archie 
 remained silent, she did so ruthlessly, with a single eye 
 to heaven and the child's salvation; but the day came 
 when Archie spoke. It was 1801, and Archie was 
 seven, and beyond his years for curiosity and logic, 
 when he brought the case up openly. If judging were 
 sinful and forbidden, how came papa to be a judge ? to 
 have that sin for a trade ? to bear the name of it for a 
 distinction ? 
 
 " I can't see it," said the little Rabbi, and wagged his 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Weir abounded in commonplace replies. 
 
 **No, I cannae see it," reiterated Archie. ** And I'll 
 tell you what, mamma, I don't think you and me's 
 justifeed in staying with him." 
 
 The woman awoke to remorse; she saw herself dis- 
 loyal to her man, her sovereign and bread-winner, in 
 whom (with what she had of worldliness) she took a 
 certain subdued pride. She expatiated in reply on my 
 lord's honour and greatness ; his useful services in this 
 
 12 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 world of sorrow and wrong, and the place in which he 
 stood, far above where babes and innocents could hope 
 to see or criticise. But she had builded too well — 
 Archie had his answers pat: Were not babes and inno- 
 cents the type of the kingdom of heaven ? Were not 
 honour and greatness the badges of the world ? And 
 at any rate, how about the mob that had once seethed 
 about the carriage ? 
 
 "It's all very fine," he concluded, *'but in my 
 opinion, papa has no right to be it. And it seems 
 that's not the worst yet of it. It seems he's called ' the 
 Hanging Judge ' — it seems he's crooool. I'll tell you 
 what it is, mamma, there's a tex' borne in upon me: 
 it were better for that man if a milestone were bound 
 upon his back and him flung into the deepestmost pairts 
 of the sea." 
 
 " O, my Iamb, ye must never say the like of that! " 
 she cried. " Ye're to honour faither and mother, dear, 
 that your days may be long in the land. It's Atheists 
 that cry out against him — French Atheists, Erchie! 
 Ye would never surely even yourself down to be saying 
 the same thing as French Atheists ? It would break 
 my heart to think that of you. And O, Erchie, here 
 are' na you setting up to Judge ? And have ye no forgot 
 God's plain command — the First with Promise, dear ? 
 Mind you upon the beam and the mote! " 
 
 Having thus carried the war into the enemy's camp, 
 the terrified lady breathed again. And no doubt it is 
 easy thus to circumvent a child with catchwords, but it 
 may be questioned how far it is effectual. An instinct 
 in his breast detects the quibble, and a voice condemns 
 it. He will instantly submit, privately hold the same 
 
 »3 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 opinion. For even in this simple and antique relation 
 of the mother and the child, hypocrisies are multiplied. 
 
 When the Court rose that year and the family re- 
 turned to Hermiston, it was a common remark in all the 
 country that the lady was sore failed. She seemed to 
 loose and seize again her touch with life, now sitting 
 inert in a sort of durable bewilderment, anon waking to 
 feverish and weak activity. She dawdled about the 
 lasses at their work, looking stupidly on ; she fell to 
 rummaging in old cabinets and presses, and desisted 
 when half through; she would begin remarks with an 
 air of animation and drop them without a struggle. Her 
 common appearance was of one who has forgotten 
 something and is trying to remember; and when she 
 overhauled, one after another, the worthless and touch- 
 ing mementoes of her youth, she might have been seek- 
 ing the clue to that lost thought. During this period she 
 gave many gifts to the neighbours and house lassies, 
 giving them with a manner of regret that embarrassed 
 the recipients. 
 
 The last night of all she was busy on some female 
 work, and toiled upon it with so manifest and painful a 
 devotion that my lord (who was not often curious) in- 
 quired as to its nature. 
 
 She blushed to the eyes. " O, Edom, it's for you! '* 
 she said. " It's slippers. I — I hae never made ye any." 
 
 "Ye daft auld wife!" returned his lordship. **A 
 bonny figure I would be, palmering about in bauchles! " 
 
 The next day, at the hour of her walk, Kirstie inter- 
 fered. Kirstie took this decay of her mistress very hard; 
 bore her a grudge, quarrelled with and railed upon her, 
 the anxiety of a genuine love wearing the disguise of 
 
 14 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 temper. This day of all days she insisted disrespect- 
 fully, with rustic fury, that Mrs. Weir should stay at 
 home. But, "No, no," she said, "it's my lord's or- 
 ders," and set forth as usual. Archie was visible in the 
 acre bog, engaged upon some childish enterprise, the 
 instrument of which was mire; and she stood and 
 looked at him awhile like one about to call; then 
 thought otherwise, sighed, and shook her head, and 
 proceeded on her rounds alone. The house lassies 
 were at the burnside washing, and saw her pass with 
 her loose, weary, dowdy gait. 
 
 "She's a terrible feckless wife, the mistress!" said 
 the one. 
 
 "Tut," said the other, "the wumman's seeck." 
 
 "Weel, I canna see nae differ in her," returned the 
 first. "A fushionless quean, a feckless carline." 
 
 The poor creature thus discussed rambled a while in 
 the grounds without a purpose. Tides in her mind 
 ebbed and flowed, and carried her to and fro like sea- 
 weed. She tried a path, paused, returned, and tried 
 another; questing, forgetting her quest; the spirit of 
 choice extinct in her bosom, or devoid ofsequency. On 
 a sudden, it appeared as though she had remembered, 
 or had formed a- resolution, wheeled about, returned 
 with hurried steps, and appeared in the dining-room, 
 where Kirstie was at the cleaning, like one charged with 
 an important errand. 
 
 "Kirstie!" she began, and paused; and then with 
 conviction, " Mr. Weir isna speeritually minded, but he 
 has been a good man to me." 
 
 It was perhaps the first time since her husband's ele- 
 vation that she had forgotten the handle to his name, 
 
 15 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 of which the tender, inconsistent woman was not a 
 little proud. And when Kirstie looked up at the speak- 
 er's face, she was aware of a change. 
 
 **Godsake, what's the maitter wi' ye, mem?" cried 
 the housekeeper, starting from the rug. 
 
 'M do not ken," answered her mistress, shaking her 
 head. *'But he is not speeritually minded, my dear." 
 
 "Here, sit down with ye! Godsake, what ails the 
 wife?" cried Kirstie, and helped and forced her into 
 my lord's own chair by the cheek of the hearth. 
 
 "Keep me, what's this?" she gasped. "Kirstie, 
 what's this ? I'm frich'ened." 
 
 They were her last words. 
 
 It was the lowering nightfall when my lord returned. 
 He had the sunset in his back, all clouds and glory; and 
 before him, by the wayside, spied Kirstie Elliott wait- 
 ing. She was dissolved in tears, and addressed him in 
 the high, false note of barbarous mourning, such as 
 still lingers modified among Scots heather. 
 
 "The Lord peety ye, Hermiston! the Lord prepare 
 ye! " she keened out. " Weary upon me, that I should 
 have to tell it!" 
 
 He reined in his horse and looked upon her with the 
 hanging face. 
 
 " Has the French landit ?" cried he. 
 
 "Man, man," she said, "is that a' ye can think of? 
 The Lord prepare ye, the Lord comfort and support 
 ye!" 
 
 "Is onybody deid?" says his lordship. "It*s no 
 Erchie?" 
 
 " Bethankit, no!" exclaimed the woman, startled in- 
 i6 
 
LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR 
 
 to a more natural tone. *'Na, na, it's no sae bad as 
 that. It's the mistress, my lord; she just fair flittit be- 
 fore my e'en. She just gi'ed a sab and was by with it. 
 Eh, my bonny Miss Jeannie, that I mind sae weel!" 
 And forth again upon that pouring tide of lamentation 
 in which women of her class excel and overabound. 
 
 Lord Hermiston sat in the saddle beholding her. Then 
 he seemed to recover command upon himself. 
 
 "Weel, it's something of the suddenest," said he. 
 ** But she was a dwaibly body from the first." 
 
 And he rode home at a precipitate amble with Kirstie 
 at his horse's heels. 
 
 Dressed as she was for her last walk, they had laid 
 the dead lady on her bed. She was never interest- 
 ing in life; in death she was not impressive; and as her 
 husband stood before her, with his hands crossed be- 
 hind his powerful back, that which he looked upon was 
 the very image of the insignificant. 
 
 **Her and me were never cut out for one another," 
 he remarked at last. *'It was a daft-like marriage." 
 And then, with a most unusual gentleness of tone, 
 " Puir bitch," said he, *' puir bitch! " Then suddenly: 
 ** Where's Erchie?" 
 
 Kirstie had decoyed him to her room and given him 
 **a jeely-piece." 
 
 *'Ye have some kind of gumption, too," observed 
 the Judge, and considered his housekeeper grimly. 
 "When all's said," he added, "I micht have done 
 waur — I micht have been marriet upon a skirling 
 Jezebel like you ! " 
 
 '* There's naebody thinking of you, Hermiston!'* 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 cried the offended woman. "We think of her that's 
 out of her sorrows. And could she have done waur } 
 Tell me that, Hermiston — tell me that before her clay- 
 cauld corp!" 
 
 " Weel, there's some of them gey an' ill to please," 
 observed his lordship. 
 
 i8 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 FATHER AND SON 
 
 My Lord Justice-Clerk was known to many; the man 
 Adam Weir perhaps to none. He had nothing to ex- 
 plain or to conceal ; he sufficed wholly and silently to 
 himself; and that part of our nature which goes out 
 (too often with false coin) to acquire glory or love, 
 seemed in him to be omitted. He did not try to be 
 loved, he did not care to be; it is probable the very 
 thought of it was a stranger to his mind. He was an 
 admired lawyer, a highly unpopular judge ; and he looked 
 down upon those who were his inferiors in either dis- 
 tinction, who were lawyers of less grasp or judges not 
 so much detested. In all the rest of his days and do- 
 ings, not one trace of vanity appeared ; and he went on 
 through life with a mechanical movement, as of the un- 
 conscious, that was almost august. 
 
 He saw little of his son. In the childish maladies 
 with which the boy was troubled, he would make daily 
 inquiries and daily pay him a visit, entering the sick- 
 room with a facetious and appalling countenance, letting 
 off a few perfunctory jests, and going again swiftly, 
 to the patient's relief. Once, a court holiday falling op- 
 portunely, my lord had his carriage, and drove the child 
 himself to Hermiston, the customary place of conva- 
 
 19 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 lescence. It is conceivable he had been more than 
 usually anxious, for that journey always remained in 
 Archie's memory as a thing apart, his father having re- 
 lated to him from beginning to end, and with much 
 detail, three authentic murder cases. Archie went the 
 usual round of other Edinburgh boys, the high school 
 and the college; and Hermiston looked on, or rather 
 looked away, with scarce an affectation of interest in his 
 progress. Daily, indeed, upon a signal after dinner, he 
 was brought in, given nuts and a glass of port, regarded 
 sardonically, sarcastically questioned. "Well, sir, and 
 what have you donn with your book to-day ? " my 
 lord might begin, and set him posers in law Latin. To 
 a child just stumbling into Corderius, Papinian and Paul 
 proved quite invincible. But papa had memory of no 
 other. He was not harsh to the little scholar, having a 
 vast fund of patience learned upon the bench, and was 
 at no pains whether to conceal or to express his disap- 
 pointment. "Well, ye have a long jaunt before ye 
 yet! " he might observe, yawning, and fall back on his 
 own thoughts (as like as not) until the time came for 
 separation, and my lord would take the decanter and 
 the glass, and be off to the back chamber looking on 
 the Meadows, where he toiled on his cases till the hours 
 were small. There was no "fuller man" on the 
 Bench; his memory was marvellous, though wholly 
 legal; if he had to "advise" extempore, none did it 
 better; yet there was none who more earnestly pre- 
 pared. As he thus watched in the night, or sat at table 
 and forgot the presence of his son, no doubt but he tasted 
 deeply of recondite pleasures. To be wholly devoted 
 to some intellectual exercise is to have succeeded in life; 
 
 20 
 
FATHER AND SON 
 
 and perhaps only in law and the higher mathematics 
 may this devotion be maintained, suffice to itself without 
 reaction, and find continual rewards without excite- 
 ment. This atmosphere of his father's sterling industry 
 was the best of Archie's education. Assuredly it did 
 not attract him; assuredly it rather rebutted and de- 
 pressed. Yet it was still present, unobserved like the 
 ticking of a clock, an arid ideal, a tasteless stimulant in 
 the boy's life. 
 
 But Hermiston was not all of one piece. He was, 
 besides, a mighty toper; he could sit at wine until the 
 day dawned, and pass directly from the table to the 
 Bench with a steady hand and a clear head. Beyond 
 the third bottle, he showed the plebeian in a larger print; 
 the low, gross accent, the low, foul mirth, grew broader 
 and commoner; he became less formidable, and infinitely 
 more disgusting. Now, the boy had inherited from 
 Jean Rutherford a shivering delicacy, unequally mated 
 with potential violence. In the playing-fields, and 
 amongst his own companions, he repaid a coarse ex- 
 pression with a blow; at his father's table (when the 
 time came for him to join these revels) he turned pale 
 and sickened in silence. Of all the guests whom he 
 there encountered, he had toleration for only one: David 
 Keith Carnegie, Lord Glenalmond. Lord Glenalmond 
 was tall and emaciated, with long features and long 
 delicate hands. He was often compared with the statue 
 of Forbes of Culloden in the Parliament House; and his 
 blue eye, at more than sixty, preserved some of the fire 
 of youth. His exquisite disparity with any of his fellow 
 guests, his appearance as of an artist and an aristocrat 
 stranded in rude company, riveted the boy's attention ; 
 
 21 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 and as curiosity and interest are the things in the world 
 that are the most immediately and certainly rewarded, 
 Lord Glenalmond was attracted to the boy. 
 
 "And so this is your son, Hermiston?" he asked, 
 laying his hand on Archie's shoulder. ** He's getting a 
 big lad." 
 
 "Hout! " said the gracious father, "just his mother 
 over again — daurna say boo to a goose! " 
 
 But the stranger retained the boy, talked to him, 
 drew him out, found in him a taste for letters, and a 
 fine, ardent, modest, youthful soul; and encouraged him 
 to be a visitor on Sunday evenings in his bare, cold, 
 lonely dining-room, where he sat and read in the isola- 
 tion of a bachelor grown old in refinement. The beau- 
 tiful gentleness and grace of the old Judge, and the 
 delicacy of his person, thoughts, and language, spoke to 
 Archie's heart in its own tongue. He conceived the 
 ambition to be such another; and, when the day came 
 for him to choose a profession, it was in emulation of 
 Lord Glenalmond, not of Lord Hermiston, that he chose 
 the Bar. Hermiston looked on at this friendship with 
 some secret pride, but openly with the intolerance of 
 scorn. He scarce lost an opportunity to put them down 
 with a rough jape; and, to say truth, it was not diffi- 
 cult, for they were neither of them quick. He had a 
 word of contempt for the whole crowd of poets, paint- 
 ers, fiddlers, and their admirers, the bastard race of 
 amateurs, which was continually on his lips. *' Signor 
 Feedle-eerie!" he would say. "Oh, for Goad's sake, 
 no more of the signor! " 
 
 "You and my father are great friends, are you 001?** 
 asked Archie once. 
 
 33 
 
FATHER AND SON 
 
 ** There is no man that I more respect, Archie," re- 
 plied Lord Glenalmond. "He is two things of price. 
 He is a great lawyer, and he is upright as the day." 
 
 "You and he are so different," said the boy, his eyes 
 dwelling on those of his old friend, like a lover's on his 
 mistress's. 
 
 "Indeed so," replied the Judge; "very different. 
 And so I fear are you and he. Yet I would like it very 
 ill if my young friend were to misjudge his father. He 
 has all the Roman virtues : Cato and Brutus were such ; 
 I think a son's heart might well be proud of such an 
 ancestry of one." 
 
 "And I would sooner he were a plaided herd," cried 
 Archie, with sudden bitterness. 
 
 "And that is neither very wise, nor I believe entirely 
 true," returned Glenalmond. "Before you are done 
 you will find some of these expressions rise on you like 
 a remorse. They are merely literary and decorative; 
 they do not aptly express your thought, nor is your 
 thought clearly apprehended, and no doubt your father 
 (if he were here) would say 'Signor Feedle-eerie! ' " 
 
 With the infinitely delicate sense of youth, Archie 
 avoided the subject from that hour. It was perhaps a 
 pity. Had he but talked — talked freely — let himself 
 gush out in words (the way youth loves to do and 
 should), there might have been no tale to write upon 
 the Weirs of Hermiston. But the shadow of a threat 
 of ridicule sufficed ; in the slight tartness of these words 
 he read a prohibition ; and it is likely that Glenalmond 
 meant it so. 
 
 Besides the veteran, the boy was without confidant 
 or friend. Serious and eager, he came through school 
 
 23 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 and college, and moved among a crowd of the indiffer- 
 ent, in the seclusion of his shyness. He grew up hand- 
 some, with an open, speaking countenance, with grace- 
 ful, youthful ways; he was clever, he took prizes, he 
 shone in the Speculative Society.^ It should seem he 
 must become the centre of a crowd of friends ; but 
 something that was in part the delicacy of his mother, 
 in part the austerity of his father, held him aloof from 
 all. It is a fact, and a strange one, that among his con- 
 temporaries Hermiston's son was thought to be a chip 
 of the old block. " You're a friend of Archie Weir's ? " 
 said one to Frank Innes; and Innes replied, with his 
 usual flippancy and more than his usual insight: "I 
 know Weir, but I never met Archie. " No one had met 
 Archie, a malady most incident to only sons. He flew 
 his private signal, and none heeded it; it seemed he 
 was abroad in a world from which the very hope of in- 
 timacy was banished; and he looked round about him 
 on the concourse of his fellow-students, and forward to 
 the trivial days and acquaintances that were to come, 
 without hope or interest. 
 
 As time went on, the tough and rough old sinner 
 felt himself drawn to the son of his loins and sole con- 
 tinuator of his new family, with softnesses of sentiment 
 that he could hardly credit and was wholly impotent to 
 express. With a face, voice and manner trained through 
 forty years to terrify and repel, Rhadamanthus may be 
 great, but he will scarce be engaging. It is a fact that 
 he tried to propitiate Archie, but a fact that cannot be 
 too lightly taken; the attempt was so unconspicuously 
 made, the failure so stoically supported. Sympathy is 
 J- A famous debating society of the students of Edinburgh University. 
 
FATHER AND SON 
 
 not due to these steadfast iron natures. If he failed to 
 gain his son's friendship, or even his son's toleration, 
 on he went up the great, bare staircase of his duty, un- 
 cheered and undepressed. There might have been 
 more pleasure in his relations with Archie, so much he 
 may have recognized at moments; but pleasure was a 
 by-product of the singular chemistry of life, which only 
 fools expected. 
 
 An idea of Archie's attitude, since we are all grown 
 up and have forgotten the days of our youth, it is more 
 difficult to convey. He made no attempt whatsoever 
 to understand the man with whom he dined and break- 
 fasted. Parsimony of pain, glut of pleasure, these are 
 the two alternating ends of youth ; and Archie was of 
 the parsimonious. The wind blew cold out of a certain 
 quarter — he turned his back upon it; stayed as little as 
 was possible in his father's presence ; and when there, 
 averted his eyes as much as was decent from his father's 
 face. The lamp shone for many hundred days upon 
 these two at table — my lord ruddy, gloomy, and un- 
 reverent; Archie with a potential brightness that was 
 always dimmed and veiled in that society; and there 
 were not, perhaps, in Christendom two men more rad- 
 ically strangers. The father, with a grand simplicity, 
 either spoke of what interested himself, or maintained 
 an unaffected silence. The son turned in his head for 
 some topic that should be quite safe, that would spare 
 him fresh evidences either of my lord's inherent gross- 
 ness or of the innocence of his inhumanity; treading 
 gingerly the ways of intercourse, like a lady gathering 
 up her skirts in a by-path. If he made a mistake, and 
 my lord began to abound in matter of offence, Archie 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 drew himself up, his brow grew dark, his share of the 
 talk expired ; but my lord would faithfully and cheer- 
 fully continue to pour out the worst of himself before 
 his silent and offended son. 
 
 " Well, it's a poor hert that never rejoices," he would 
 say, at the conclusion of such a nightmare interview. 
 "But I must get to my plew-stilts." And he would 
 seclude himself as usual in the back room, and Archie 
 go forth into the night and the city quivering with ani- 
 mosity and scorn. 
 
 fl6 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 It chanced in the year 1813 that Archie strayed one 
 day into the Judiciary Court. The macer made room 
 for the son of the presiding judge. In the dock, the 
 centre of men's eyes, there stood a whey-coloured, 
 misbegotten caitiff, Duncan Jopp, on trial for his life. 
 His story, as it was raked out before him in that public 
 scene, was one of disgrace and vice and cowardice, the 
 very nakedness of crime; and the creature heard and it 
 seemed at times as though he understood — as if at 
 times he forgot the horror of the place he stood in, and 
 remembered the shame of what had brought him 
 there. He kept his head bowed and his hands clutched 
 upon the rail; his hair dropped in his eyes and at times 
 he flung it back; and now he glanced about the au- 
 dience in a sudden fellness of terror, and now looked in 
 the face of his judge and gulped. There was pinned 
 about his throat a piece of dingy flannel; and this it 
 was perhaps that turned the scale in Archie's mind be- 
 tween disgust and pity. The creature stood in a van- 
 ishing point; yet a little while, and he was still a man, 
 and had eyes and apprehension ; yet a little longer, and 
 with a last sordid piece of pageantry, he would cease 
 
 27 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 to be. And here, in the meantime, with a trait of hu- 
 man nature that caught at the beholder's breath, he was 
 tending a sore throat. 
 
 Over against him, my Lord Hermiston occupied the 
 bench in the red robes of criminal jurisdiction, his face 
 framed in the white wig. Honest all through, he did 
 not affect the virtue of impartiality; this was no case 
 for refinement; there was a man to be hanged, he would 
 have said, and he was hanging him. Nor was it possi- 
 ble to see his lordship, and acquit him of gusto in the 
 task. It was plain he gloried in the exercise of his 
 trained faculties, in the clear sight which pierced at 
 once into the joint of fact, in the rude, unvarnished jibes 
 with which he demolished every figment of defence. 
 He took his ease and jested, unbending in that solemn 
 place with some of the freedom of the tavern; and the 
 rag of man with the flannel round his neck was hunted 
 gallowsward with jeers. 
 
 Duncan had a mistress, scarce less forlorn and greatly 
 older than himself, who came up, whimpering and 
 curtseying, to add the weight of her betrayal. My lord 
 gave her the oath in his most roaring voice and added 
 an intolerant warning. 
 
 *'Mind what ye say now, Janet," said he. '*l have 
 an e'e upon ye; I'm ill to jest with." 
 
 Presently, after she was tremblingly embarked on her 
 story, "And what made ye do this, ye auld runt ?" the 
 Court interposed. *' Do ye mean to tell me ye was the 
 pannel's mistress ? " 
 
 **lf you please, ma loard," whined the female. 
 
 "Godsake! ye made a bonny couple," observed his 
 lordship; and there was something so formidable and 
 
 28 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 ferocious in his scorn that not even the galleries thought 
 to laugh. 
 
 The summing up contained some jewels. 
 
 ** These two peetiable creatures seem to have made 
 up thegither, it's not for us to explain why." — *'The 
 pannel, who (whatever else he may be) appears to be 
 equally ill set out in mind and boady." — '* Neither the 
 pannel nor yet the old wife appears to have had so 
 much common sense as even to tell a lie when it was 
 necessary." And in the course of sentencing, my lord 
 had this obiter dictum : " I have been the means, under 
 God, of haanging a great number, but never just such 
 a disjaskit rascal as yourself." The words were strong 
 in themselves; the light and heat and detonation of 
 their delivery, and the savage pleasure of the speaker in 
 his task, made them tingle in the ears. 
 
 When all was over, Archie came forth again into a 
 changed world. Had there been the least redeeming 
 greatness in the crime, any obscurity, any dubiety, per- 
 haps he might have understood. But the culprit stood, 
 with his sore throat, in the sweat of his mortal agony, 
 without defence or excuse; a thing to cover up with 
 blushes; a being so much sunk beneath the zones of 
 sympathy that pity might seem harmless. And the 
 judge had pursued him with a monstrous, relishing 
 gaiety, horrible to be conceived, a trait for nightmares. 
 It is one thing to spear a tiger, another to crush a toad ; 
 there are aesthetics even of the slaughter-house; and the 
 loathsomeness of Duncan Jopp enveloped and infected 
 the image of his judge. 
 
 Archie passed by his friends in the High Street with 
 incoherent words and gestures. He saw Holyrood in 
 
 29 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 a dream, remembrance of its romance awoke in him 
 and faded; he had a vision of the old radiant stories, 
 of Queen Mary and Prince Charlie, of the hooded stag, 
 of the splendor and crime, the velvet and bright iron 
 of the past; and dismissed them with a cry of pain. 
 He lay and moaned in the Hunter's Bog, and the 
 heavens were dark above him and the grass of the 
 field an offence. "This is my father," he said. "I 
 draw my life from him; the flesh upon my bones is 
 his, the bread I am fed with is the wages of these 
 horrors." He recalled his mother, and ground his 
 forehead in the earth. He thought of flight, and 
 where was he to flee to ? of other lives, but was there 
 any life worth living in this den of savage and jeering 
 animals ? 
 
 The interval before the execution was like a violent 
 dream. He met his father; he would not look at him, 
 he could not speak to him. It seemed there was no 
 living creature but must have been swift to recognize 
 that imminent animosity, but the hide of the Lord Jus- 
 tice-Clerk remained impenetrable. Had my lord been 
 talkative, the truce could never have subsisted; but he 
 was by fortune in one of his humors of sour silence; 
 and under the very guns of his broadside Archie nursed 
 the enthusiasm of rebellion. It seemed to him, from 
 the top of his nineteen years' experience, as if he were 
 marked at birth to be the perpetrator of some signal 
 action, to set back fallen Mercy, to overthrow the 
 usurping devil that sat, horned and hoofed, on her 
 throne. Seductive Jacobin figments, which he had 
 often refuted at the Speculative, swam up in his mind 
 and startled him as with voices; and he seemed to him- 
 
 30 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 self to walk accompanied by an almost tangible pres- 
 ence of new beliefs and duties. 
 
 On the named morning he was at the place of execu- 
 tion. He saw the fleering rabble, the flinching wretch 
 produced. He looked on for awhile at a certain parody 
 of devotion, which seemed to strip the wretch of his 
 last claim to manhood. Then followed the brutal in- 
 stant of extinction, and the paltry dangling of the re- 
 mains like a broken jumping-jack. He had been pre- 
 pared for something terrible, not for this tragic meanness. 
 He stood a moment silent, and then — "\ denounce 
 this God-defying murder," he shouted; and his father, 
 if he must have disclaimed the sentiment, might have 
 owned the stentorian voice with which it was uttered. 
 
 Frank Innes dragged him from the spot. The two 
 handsome lads followed the same course of study and 
 recreation, and felt a certain mutual attraction, founded 
 mainly on good looks. It had never gone deep; Frank 
 was by nature a thin, jeering creature, not truly suscep- 
 tible whether of feeling or inspiring friendship; and the 
 relation between the pair was altogether on the outside, 
 a thing of common knowledge and the pleasantries that 
 spring from a common acquaintance. The more credit 
 to Frank that he was appalled by Archie's outburst, 
 and at least conceived the design of keeping him in 
 sight, and, if possible, in hand, for the day. But Archie, 
 who had just defied — was it God or Satan.? — would 
 not listen to the word of a college companion. 
 
 *' I will not go with you," he said. " I do not desire 
 your company, sir; I would be alone." 
 
 *'Here, Weir, man, don't be absurd," said Innes, 
 keeping a tight hold upon his sleeve. "I will not let 
 
 3» 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 you go until I know what you mean to do with your- 
 self; it's no use brandishing that staff." For indeed at 
 that moment Archie had made a sudden — perhaps a 
 warlike — movement. "This has been the most in- 
 sane affair; you know it has. You know very well that 
 I'm playing the good Samaritan. All I wish is to keep 
 you quiet." 
 
 " If quietness is what you wish, Mr. Innes," said Ar- 
 chie, " and you will promise to leave me entirely to my- 
 self, 1 will tell you so much, that I am going to walk in 
 the country and admire the beauties of nature." 
 
 " Honor bright ? " asked Frank. 
 
 " I am not in the habit of lying, Mr. Innes," retorted 
 Archie. " I have the honor of wishing you good-day." 
 
 "You won't forget the Spec. ?" asked Innes. 
 
 " The Spec. ? " said Archie. " Oh, no, I won't forget 
 the Spec." 
 
 And the one young man carried his tortured spirit 
 forth of the city and all the day long, by one road and 
 another, in an endless pilgrimage of misery ; while the 
 other hastened smilingly to spread the news of Weir's 
 access of insanity, and to drum up for that night a full 
 attendance at the Speculative, where farther eccentric 
 developments might certainly be looked for. I doubt 
 if Innes had the least belief in his prediction ; I think it 
 flowed rather from a wish to make the story as good 
 and the scandal as great as possible; not from any ill- 
 will to Archie — from the mere pleasure of beholding 
 interested faces. But for all that his words were pro- 
 phetic. Archie did not forget the Spec. ; he put in an 
 appearance there at the due time, and, before the even- 
 ing was over, had dealt a memorable shock to his com- 
 
 32 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 panions. It chanced he was the president of the night. 
 He sat in the same room where the society still meets 
 
 — only the portraits were not there; the men who after- 
 wards sat for them were then but beginning their career. 
 The same lustre of many tapers shed its light over the 
 meeting; the same chair, perhaps, supported him that 
 so many of us have sat in since. At times he seemed 
 to forget the business of the evening, but even in these 
 periods he sat with a great air of energy and determina- 
 tion. At times he meddled bitterly and launched with 
 defiance those fines which are the precious and rarely 
 used artillery of the president. He little thought, as he 
 did so, how he resembled his father, but his friends re- 
 marked upon it, chuckling. So far, in his high place 
 above his fellow-students, he seemed set beyond the 
 possibility of any scandal; but his mind was made up 
 
 — he was determined to fulfil the sphere of his offence. 
 He signed to Innes (whom he had just fined, and 
 who just impeached his ruling) to succeed him in the 
 chair, stepped down from the platform, and took his 
 place by the chimney-piece, the shine of many wax 
 tapers from above illuminating his pale face, the glow 
 of the great red fire relieving from behind his slim figure. 
 He had to propose, as an amendment to the next sub- 
 ject in the case book, '* Whether capital punishment be 
 consistent with God's will or man's policy ? " 
 
 A breath of embarrassment, of something like alarm, 
 passed round the room, so daring did these words ap- 
 pear upon the lips of Hermiston's only son. But the 
 amendment was not seconded; the previous question 
 was promptly moved and unanimously voted, and the 
 momentary scandal smuggled by. Innes triumphed in 
 
 33 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 the fulfilment of his prophecy. He and Archie were 
 now become the heroes of the night; but whereas 
 everyone crowded about Innes, when the meeting broke 
 up, but one of all his companions came to speak to 
 Archie. 
 
 "Weir, man! that was an extraordinary raid of 
 yours!" observed this courageous member, taking him 
 confidentially by the arm as they went out. 
 
 " I don't think it a raid," said Archie grimly. ** More 
 like a war. I saw that poor brute hanged this morn- 
 ing, and my gorge rises at it yet." 
 
 ** Hut-tut!" returned his companion, and, dropping 
 his arm like something hot, he sought the less tense so- 
 ciety of others. 
 
 Archie found himself alone. The last of the faithful 
 — or was it only the boldest of the curious ? — had fled. 
 He watched the black huddle of his fellow-students 
 draw off down and up the street, in whispering or bois- 
 terous gangs. And the isolation of the moment weighed 
 upon him like an omen and an emblem of his destiny 
 in life. Bred up in unbroken fear himself, among 
 trembling servants, and in a house which (at the least 
 ruffle in the master's voice) shuddered into silence, he 
 saw himself on the brink of the red valley of war, and 
 measured the danger and length of it with awe. He 
 made a detour in the glimmer and shadow of the streets, 
 came into the back stable lane, and watched for a long 
 while the light burn steady in the Judge's room. The 
 longer he gazed upon that illuminated window-blind, 
 the more blank became the picture of the man who sat 
 behind it, endlessly turning over sheets of process, 
 pausing to sip a glass of port, or rising and passing 
 
 34 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 heavily about his book-lined walls to verify some 
 reference. He could not combine the brutal judge and 
 the industrious, dispassionate student; the connecting 
 link escaped him ; from such a dual nature, it was im- 
 possible he should predict behaviour; and he asked him- 
 self if he had done well to plunge into a business of 
 which the end could not be foreseen; and presently 
 after, with a sickening decline of confidence, if he had 
 done loyally to strike his father. For he had struck 
 him — defied him twice over and before a cloud of wit- 
 nesses — struck him a public buffet before crowds. 
 Who had called him to judge his father in these precari- 
 ous and high questions ? The office was usurped. It 
 might have become a stranger; in a son — there was no 
 blinking it — in a son, it was disloyal. And now, be- 
 tween these two natures so antipathetic, so hateful to 
 each other, there was depending an unpardonable af- 
 front: and the providence of God alone might foresee 
 the manner in which it would be resented by Lord 
 Hermiston. 
 
 These misgivings tortured him all night and arose 
 with him in the winter's morning; they followed him 
 from class to class, they made him shrinkingly sensitive 
 to every shade of manner in his companions, they 
 sounded in his ears through the current voice oi^the 
 professor; and he brought them home with him at 
 night unabated and indeed increased. The cause of 
 this increase lay in a chance encounter with the cele- 
 brated Dr. Gregory. Archie stood looking vaguely in 
 the lighted window of a book shop, trying to nerve 
 himself for the approaching ordeal. My lord and he 
 had met and parted in the morning as they had now 
 
 35 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 done for long, with scarcely the ordinary civilities of 
 life; and it was plain to the son that nothing had yet 
 reached the father's ears. Indeed, when he recalled the 
 awful countenance of my lord, a timid hope sprang up 
 in him that perhaps there would be found no one bold 
 enough to carry tales. If this were so, he asked him- 
 self, would he begin again ? and he found no answer. 
 It was at this moment that a hand was laid upon his 
 arm, and a voice said in his ear, ** My dear Mr. Archie, 
 you had better come and see me." 
 
 He started, turned around, and found himself face to 
 face with Dr. Gregory. "And why should I come to 
 see you ? " he asked, with the defiance of the miser- 
 able. 
 
 *' Because you are looking exceeding ill," said the 
 doctor, "and you very evidently want looking after, 
 my young friend. Good folk are scarce, you know; 
 and it is not everyone that would be quite so much 
 missed as yourself. It is not everyone that Hermiston 
 would miss." 
 
 And with a nod and smile, the doctor passed on. 
 
 A moment after, Archie was in pursuit, and had in 
 turn, but more roughly, seized him by the arm. 
 
 "What do you mean.? what did you mean by say- 
 ing '^at? What makes you think that Hermis — my 
 father would have missed me ?" 
 
 The doctor turned about and looked him all over with 
 a clinical eye. A far more stupid man than Dr. Gregory 
 might have guessed the truth ; but ninety-nine out of a 
 hundred, even if they had been equally inclined to kind- 
 ness, would have blundered by some touch of charita- 
 ble exaggeration. The doctor was better inspired. He 
 
 }6 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 Knew the father well ; in that white face of intelligence 
 and suffering, he divined something of the son; and he 
 told, without apology or adornment, the plain truth. 
 
 "When you had the measles, Mr. Archibald, you 
 had them gey and ill; and I thought you were going to 
 slip between my fingers," he said. " Well, your father 
 was anxious. How did I know it ? says you. Simply 
 because I am a trained observer. The sign that I saw 
 him make, ten thousand would have missed; and per- 
 haps — perhaps, I say, because he's a hard man to judge 
 of — but perhaps he never made another. A strange 
 thing to consider ! It was this. One day I came to him : 
 *Hermiston,' said I, 'there's a change.' He never said 
 a word, just glowered at me (if ye'll pardon the phrase) 
 like a wild beast. *A change for the better,' said I. 
 And I distinctly heard him take his breath." 
 
 The doctor left no opportunity for anti-climax; nod- 
 ding his cocked hat (a piece of antiquity to which he 
 clung) and repeating "Distinctly" with raised eye- 
 brows, he took his departure, and left Archie speechless 
 in the street. 
 
 The anecdote might be called infinitely little, and yet 
 its meaning for Archie was immense. " I did not know 
 the old man had so much blood in him." He had never 
 dreamed this sire of his, this aboriginal antique, this 
 adamantine Adam, had even so much of a heart as to be 
 moved in the least degree for another — and that other 
 himself, who had insulted him ! With the generosity 
 of youth, Archie was instantly under arms upon the 
 other side : had instantly created a new image of Lord 
 Hermiston, that of a man who was all iron without and 
 all sensibility within. The mind of the vile jester, the 
 
 37 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 tongue that had pursued Duncan Jopp with unmanly 
 insults, the unbeloved countenance that he had known 
 and feared for so long, were all forgotten; and he has- 
 tened home, impatient to confess his misdeeds, impa- 
 tient to throw himself on the mercy of this imaginary 
 character. 
 
 He was not to be long without a rude awakening. 
 It was in the gloaming when he drew near the doorstep 
 of the lighted house, and was aware of the figure of his 
 father approaching from the opposite side. Little day- 
 light lingered; but on the door being opened, the strong 
 yellow shine of the lamp gushed out upon the landing 
 and shone full on Archie, as he stood, in the old-fash- 
 ioned observance of respect, to yield precedence. The 
 Judge came without haste, stepping stately and firm; 
 his chin raised, his face (as he entered the lamplight) 
 strongly illumined, his mouth set hard. There was 
 never a wink of change in his expression; without look- 
 ing to the right or left, he mounted the stair, passed 
 close to Archie, and entered the house. Instinctively, 
 the boy, upon his first coming, had made a movement 
 to meet him ; instinctively, he recoiled against the rail- 
 ing, as the old man swept by him in a pomp of indig- 
 nation. Words were needless; he knew all — perhaps 
 more than all — and the hour of judgment was at hand. 
 
 It is possible that, in this sudden revulsion of hope 
 and before these symptoms of impending danger, Archie 
 might have fled. But not even that was left to him. My 
 lord, after hanging up his cloak and hat, turned round in 
 the lighted entry, and made him an imperative and silent 
 gesture with his thumb, and with the strange instinct of 
 obedience, Archie followed him into the house. 
 
 38 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 All dinner time there reigned over the Judge's table 
 a palpable silence, and as soon as the solids were des- 
 patched he rose to his feet. 
 
 " M'Killop, tak' the wine into my room," said he; 
 and then to his son: "Archie, you and me has to have 
 a talk." 
 
 It was at this sickening moment that Archie's cour- 
 age, for the first and last time, entirely deserted him. 
 " I have an appointment," said he. 
 
 * 'It'll have to be broken, then," said Hermiston, and 
 led the way into his study. 
 
 The lamp was shaded, the fire trimmed to a nicety, 
 the table covered deep with orderly documents, the 
 backs of law books made a frame upon all sides that 
 was only broken by the window and the doors. 
 
 For a moment Hermiston warmed his hands at the 
 fire, presenting his back to Archie; then suddenly dis- 
 closed on him the terrors of the Hanging Face. 
 
 "What's this I hear of ye!" he asked. 
 
 There was no answer possible to Archie. 
 
 "I'll have to tell ye, then," pursued Hermiston. "It 
 seems ye've been skirling against the father that begot 
 ye, and one of His Maijesty's Judges in this land; and 
 that in the public street, and while an order of the 
 Court was being executit. Forbye which, it would 
 appear that ye've been airing your opeenions in a Coal- 
 lege Debatin' Society," he paused a moment: and, 
 then, with extraordinary bitterness, added: "Ye 
 damned eediot." 
 
 "I had meant to tell you," stammered Archie. "I 
 see you are well informed." 
 
 " Muckle obleeged to ye," said his lordship, and took 
 
 39 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 his usual seat. **And so you disapprove of caapital 
 punishment ? " he added. 
 
 ** I am sorry, sir, I do," said Archie. 
 
 "I am sorry, too," said his lordship. '* And now, 
 if you please, we shall approach this business with a 
 little more parteecularity. I hear that at the hanging 
 of Duncan Jopp — and, man! ye had a fine client there 
 — in the middle of all the riffraff of the ceety, ye thought 
 fit to cry out, * This is a damned murder, and my gorge 
 rises at the man that haangit him.' " 
 
 "No, sir, these were not my words," cried Archie. 
 
 "What were ye'r words, then ?" asked the Judge. 
 
 *' I believe I said, * I denounce it as a murder! ' " said 
 the son, '* I beg your pardon — a God-defying murder. 
 I have no wish to conceal the truth," he added, and 
 looked his father for a moment in the face. 
 
 "God, it would only need that of it next!" cried 
 Hermiston. "There was nothing about your gorge 
 rising, then ? " 
 
 "That was afterwards, my lord, as I was leaving the 
 Speculative. I said I had been to see the miserable 
 creature hanged, and my gorge rose at it." 
 
 "Did ye, though?" said Hermiston. "And I sup- 
 pose ye knew who haangit him ? " 
 
 "I was present at the trial, I ought to tell you that, 
 I ought to explain. I ask your pardon beforehand for 
 any expression that may seem undutiful. The position 
 in which I stand is wretched," said the unhappy hero, 
 now fairly face to face with the business he had chosen. 
 " I have been reading some of your cases. I was pres- 
 ent while Jopp was tried. It was a hideous business. 
 Father, it was a hideous thing! Grant he was vile, 
 
 40 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 why should you hunt him with a vileness equal to his 
 own? It was done with glee — that is the word — 
 you did it with glee; and I looked on, God help me! 
 with horror." 
 
 "You're a young gentleman that doesna approve of 
 caapital punishment," said Hermiston. '* Weel, I'm 
 an auld man that does. I was glad to get Jopp haangit, 
 and what for would I pretend I wasna ? You're all for 
 honesty, it seems; you couldn't even steik your mouth 
 on the public street. What for should I steik mines 
 upon the bench, the King's officer, bearing the sword, a 
 dreid to evil-doers, as I was from the beginning, and 
 as I will be to the end! Mair than enough of it! Hee- 
 dious! I never gave twa thoughts to heediousness, I 
 have no call to be bonny. I'm a man that gets through 
 with my day's business, and let that suffice." 
 
 The ring of sarcasm had died out of his voice as he 
 went on ; the plain words became invested with some 
 of the dignity of the justice-seat. 
 
 " It would be telling you if you could say as much," 
 the speaker resumed. ** But ye cannot. ** Ye've been 
 reading some of my cases, ye say. But it was not for 
 the law in them, it was to spy out your faither's naked- 
 ness, a fine employment in a son. You're splairging; 
 you're running at lairge in life like a wild nowt. It's 
 impossible you should think any longer of coming to 
 the Bar. You're not fit for it; no splairger is. And 
 another thing: son of mines or no son of mines, you 
 have flung fylement in public on one of the Senators 
 of the Coallege of Justice, and I would make it my busi- 
 ness to see that ye were never admitted there yourself 
 There is a kind of a decency to be observit. Then comes 
 
 4» 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 the next of it — what am I to do with ye next? Ye'Il 
 have to find some kind of a trade, for I'll never support 
 ye in idleset. What do ye fancy ye'll be fit for ? The 
 pulpit ? Na, they could never get diveenity into that 
 bloackhead. Him that the law of man whammles is 
 no likely to do muckle better by the law of God. What 
 would ye make of hell ? Wouldna your gorge rise at 
 that? Na, there's no room for splairgers under the 
 fower quarters of John Calvin. What else is there ? 
 Speak up. Have ye got nothing of your own ? " 
 
 "Father, let me go to the Peninsula," said Archie. 
 ''That's all I'm fit for — to fight." 
 
 **A11? quo' he!" returned the Judge. **And it 
 would be enough too, if I thought it. But I'll never 
 trust ye so near the French, you that's so Frenchifeed." 
 
 "You do me injustice there, sir," said Archie. "I 
 am loyal; I will not boast; but any interest I may have 
 ever felt in the French — " 
 
 " Have ye been so loyal to to me?" interrupted his 
 father. 
 
 There came no reply. 
 
 " I think not," continued Hermiston. " And I would 
 send no man to be a servant to the King, God bless 
 him ! that has proved such a shauchling son to his own 
 faither. You can splairge here on Edinburgh street, and 
 Where's the hairm ? It doesna play buff on me! And 
 if there were twenty thousand eediots like yourself, sor- 
 row a Duncan Jopp would hang the fewer. But there's 
 no splairging possible in a camp; and if you were to go 
 to it, you would find out for yourself whether Lord 
 Well'n'ton approves of caapital punishment or not. You 
 a sodger!" he cried, with a sudden burst of scorn. 
 
 43 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP 
 
 **Ye auld wife, the sodgers would bray at ye like 
 cuddies! " 
 
 As at the drawing of a curtain, Archie was aware of 
 some illogicality in his position, and stood abashed. 
 He had a strong impression, besides, of the essential 
 valour of the old gentleman before him, how conveyed 
 it would be hard to say. 
 
 **Well, have ye no other proposeetion ? " said my 
 lord again. 
 
 "You have taken this so calmly, sir, that I cannot 
 but stand ashamed," began Archie. 
 
 "I'm nearer voamiting, though, than you would 
 fancy," said my lord. 
 
 The blood rose to Archie's brow. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I should have said that you 
 had accepted my affront. ... I admit it was an af- 
 front; I did not think to apologise, but I do, I ask your 
 pardon ; it will not be so again, I pass you my word of 
 honour. ... I should have said that I admired your 
 magnanimity with — this — offender," Archie concluded 
 with a gulp. 
 
 " I have no other son, ye see," said Hermiston. " A 
 bonny one I have gotten! But I must just do the best 
 I can wi' him, and what am I to do ? If ye had been 
 younger, I would have wheepit ye for this rideeculous 
 exhibeetion. The way it is, I have just to grin and bear. 
 But one thing is to be clearly understood. As a faither, I 
 must grin and bear it; but if 1 had been the Lord Advo- 
 cate instead of the Lord Justice-Clerk, son or no son, Mr. 
 Erchibald Weir would have been in a jyle the night." 
 
 Archie was now dominated. Lord Hermiston was 
 coarse and cruel; and yet the son was aware of a 
 
 43 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 bloomless nobility, an ungracious abnegation of the 
 man's self in the man's office. At every word, this 
 sense of the greatness of Lord Hermiston's spirit struck 
 more home; and along with it that of his own impo- 
 tence, who had struck — and perhaps basely struck — 
 at his own father, and not reached so far as to have 
 even nettled him. 
 
 ' ' I place myself in your hands without reserve, " he said. 
 
 ** That's the first sensible word I've had of ye the 
 night," said Hermiston. **I can tell ye, that would 
 have been the end of it, the one way or the other; but 
 it's better ye should come there yourself, than what I 
 would have had to hirstle ye. Weel, by my way of it 
 — and my way is the best — there's just the one thing 
 it's possible that ye might be with decency, and that's 
 a laird. Ye'll be out of hairm's way at the least of it. 
 If ye have to rowt, ye can rowt amang the kye; and 
 the maist feck of the caapital punishment yeVe like 
 to come across'll be guddling trouts. Now, I'm for no 
 idle lairdies; every man has to work, if it's only at ped- 
 dling ballants; to work, or to be wheeped, or to be 
 haangit. If 1 set ye down at Hermiston, I'll have to see 
 you work that place the way it has never been workit 
 yet; ye must ken about the sheep like a herd; ye must 
 be my grieve there, and I'll see that I gain by ye. Is 
 that understood ? " 
 
 *M will do my best," said Archie. 
 
 *'Well, then, I'll send Kirstie word the morn, and 
 ye can go yourself the day after," said Hermiston. 
 " And just try to be less of an eediot! " he concluded, 
 with a freezing smile, and turned immediately to the 
 papers on his desk. 
 
 44 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 OPINION OF THE BENCH 
 
 Late the same night, after a disordered walk, Archie 
 was admitted into Lord Glenalmond's dining-room 
 where he sat, with a book upon his knee, beside three 
 frugal coals of fire. In his robes upon the bench. Glen- 
 almond had a certain air of burliness : plucked of these, 
 it was a may-pole of a man that rose unsteadily from 
 his chair to give his visitor welcome. Archie had suf- 
 fered much in the last days, he had suffered again that 
 evening; his face was white and drawn, his eyes wild 
 and dark. But Lord Glenalmond greeted him without 
 the least mark of surprise or curiosity. 
 
 **Come in, come in," said he. "Come in and take 
 a seat. Carstairs " (to his servant), " make up the fire, 
 and then you can bring a bit of supper," and again to 
 Archie, with a very trivial accent: **I was half expect- 
 ing you," he added. 
 
 ''No supper," said Archie. *Mt is impossible that I 
 should eat." 
 
 "Not impossible," said the tall old man, laying his 
 hand upon his shoulder, ** and, if you will believe me, 
 necessary. " 
 
 "You know what brings me?" said Archie, as soon 
 as the servant had left the room. 
 
 45 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 '* I have a guess, I have a guess," replied Glenalmond. 
 '* We will talk of it presently — when Carstairs has 
 come and gone, and you have had a piece of my good 
 Cheddar cheese and a pull at the porter tankard: not 
 before." 
 
 "It is impossible I should eat," repeated Archie. 
 
 *'Tut, tut!" said Lord Glenalmond. "You have 
 eaten nothing to-day, and, I venture to add, nothing 
 yesterday. There is no case that may not be made 
 worse; this may be a very disagreeable business, but 
 if you were to fall sick and die, it would be still more 
 so, and for all concerned — for all concerned." 
 
 "I see you must know all," said Archie. "Where 
 did you hear it?" 
 
 "In the mart of scandal, in the Parliament House," 
 said Glenalmond. "It runs riot below among the bar 
 and the public, but it sifts up to us upon the bench, and 
 rumour has some of her voices even in the divisions." 
 
 Carstairs returned at this moment, and rapidly laid 
 out a little supper; during which Lord Glenalmond 
 spoke at large and a little vaguely on indifferent sub- 
 jects, so that it might be rather said of him that he 
 made a cheerful noise, than that he contributed to hu- 
 man conversation ; and Archie sat upon the other side, 
 not heeding him, brooding over his wrongs and errors. 
 
 But so soon as the servant was gone, he broke forth 
 again at once. "Who told my father? Who dared 
 to tell him ? Could it have been you ? " 
 
 "No, it was not me," said the Judge; "although — 
 to be quite frank with you, and after I had seen and 
 warned you — it might have been me. I believe it was 
 Glenkindie." 
 
 46 
 
OPINION OF THE BENCH 
 
 •'That shrimp!" cried Archie. 
 
 ''As you say, that shrimp," returned my lord; " al- 
 though really it is scarce a fitting mode of expression 
 for one of the Senators of the College of Justice. We 
 were hearing the parties in a long, crucial case, before 
 the fifteen; Creech was moving at some length for an 
 infeftment; when I saw Glenkindie lean forward to 
 Hermiston with his hand over his mouth and make him 
 a secret communication. No one could have guessed its 
 nature from your father; from Glenkindie, yes, his malice 
 sparked out of him a little grossly. But your father, 
 no. A man of granite. The next moment he pounced 
 upon Creech. 'Mr. Creech,' says he. Til take a look 
 of that sasine,' and for thirty minutes after," said Glen- 
 almond, with a smile, "Messrs. Creech and Co. were 
 fighting a pretty uphill battle, which resulted, I need 
 hardly add, in their total rout. The case was dismissed. 
 No, I doubt if ever I heard Hermiston better inspired. 
 He was literally rejoicing in apicibus juris.'' 
 
 Archie was able to endure no longer. He thrust his 
 plate away and interrupted the deliberate and insignifi- 
 cant stream of talk. " Here," he said, "I have made a 
 fool of myself, if I have not made something worse. Do 
 you judge between us — judge between a father and a 
 son. I can speak to you; it is not like .... I will 
 tell you what I feel and what I mean to do; and you 
 shall be the judge," he repeated. 
 
 "I decline jurisdiction," said Glenalmond with ex- 
 treme seriousness. "But, my dear boy, if it will do 
 you any good to talk, and if it will interest you at all 
 to hear what I may choose to say when I have heard 
 you, I am quite at your command. Let an old man 
 
 47 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 say it, for once, and not need to blush : I love you like 
 a son." 
 
 There came a sudden sharp sound in Archie's throat. 
 "Ay," he cried, "and there it is! Love! Like a son! 
 And how do you think I love my father.^" 
 
 "Quietly, quietly," says my lord. 
 
 "I will be very quiet," replied Archie. "And I will 
 be baldly frank. 1 do not love my father; I wonder 
 sometimes if I do not hate him. There's my shame; 
 perhaps my sin ; at least, and in the sight of God, not 
 my fault. How was I to love him ? He nas never 
 spoken to me, never smiled upon me; I do not think 
 he ever touched me. You know the way he talks ? 
 You do not talk so, yet you can sit and hear him with- 
 out shuddering, and I cannot. My soul is sick when 
 he begins with it; I could smite him in the mouth. 
 And all that's nothing. I was at the trial of this Jopp. 
 You were not there, but you must have heard him often ; 
 the man's notorious for it, for being — look at my posi- 
 tion! he's my father and this is how I have to speak of 
 him — notorious for being a brute and cruel and a cow- 
 ard. Lord Glenalmond, 1 give you my word, when I 
 came out of that Court, I longed to die — the shame of 
 it was beyond my strength : but I — I — "he rose from 
 his seat and began to pace the room in a disorder. 
 " Well, who am I ? A boy, who have never been tried, 
 have never done anything except this twopenny impo- 
 tent folly with my father. But I tell you, my lord, and I 
 know myself, I am at least that kind of a man — or that 
 kind of a boy, if you prefer it — that I could die in tor- 
 ments rather than that anyone should suffer as that 
 scoundrel suffered. Well, and what have I done ? I 
 
 48 
 
OPINION OF THE BENCH 
 
 see it now. I have made a fool of myself, as I said in 
 the beginning; and I have gone back, and asked my 
 father's pardon, and placed myself wholly in his hands 
 — and he has sent me to Hermiston," with a wretched 
 smile, "for life, I suppose — and what can I say ? he 
 strikes me as having done quite right, and let me oft 
 better than I had deserved." 
 
 " My poor, dear boy ! " observed Glenalmond. *' My 
 poor dear and, if you will allow me to say so, very fool- 
 ish boy ! You are only discovering where you are ; to 
 one of your temperament, or of mine, a painful discov- 
 ery. The world was not made for us; it was made 
 for ten hundred millions of men, all different from each 
 other and from us ; there's no royal road there, we just 
 have to sclamber and tumble. Don't think that I am at 
 all disposed to be surprised ; don't suppose that I ever 
 think of blaming you; indeed I rather admire! But 
 there fall to be offered one or two observations on the 
 case which occur to me and which (if you will listen to 
 them dispassionately) may be the means of inducing 
 you to view the matter more calmly. First of all, I can- 
 not acquit you of a good deal of what is called intoler- 
 ance. You seem to have been very much offended be- 
 cause your father talks a little sculduddery after dinner, 
 which it is perfectly licit for him to do, and which (al- 
 though I am not very fond of it myself) appears to be 
 entirely an affair of taste. Your father, I scarcely like to 
 remind you, since it is so trite a commonplace, is older 
 than yourself. At least, he is major and sui juris, and 
 may please himself in the matter of his conversation. 
 And, do you know, I wonder if he might not have as 
 good an answer against you and me? We say we 
 
 49 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 sometimes find him coarse, but I suspect he might re- 
 tort that he finds us always dull. Perhaps a relevant 
 exception." 
 
 He beamed on Archie, but no smile could be 
 elicited. 
 
 *' And now," proceeded the Judge, ** for * Archibald 
 on Capital Punishment.' This is a very plausible aca- 
 demic opinion; of course 1 do not and 1 cannot hold it; 
 but that's not to say that many able and excellent per- 
 sons have not done so in the past. Possibly, in the 
 past also, I may have a little dipped myself in the same 
 heresy. My third client, or possibly my fourth, was 
 the means of a return in my opinions. 1 never saw the 
 man I more believed in; 1 would have put my hand in 
 the fire, I would have gone to the cross for him ; and 
 when it came to trial he was gradually pictured before 
 me, by undeniable probation, in the light of so gross, 
 so cold-blooded, and so black-hearted a villain, that I 
 had a mind to have cast my brief upon the table. I was 
 then boiling against the man with even a more tropical 
 temperature than 1 had been boiling for him. But 1 said 
 to myself: 'No, you have taken up his case; and be- 
 cause you have changed your mind it must not be suf- 
 fered to let drop. All that rich tide of eloquence that 
 you prepared last night with so much enthusiasm is out 
 of place, and yet you must not desert him, you must 
 say something.' So 1 said something, and 1 got him off. 
 It made my reputation. But an experience of that kind 
 is formative. A man must not bring his passions to the 
 bar — or to the bench." 
 
 This story had slightly rekindled Archie's interest. 
 ** I could never deny," he began — "I mean I can con- 
 
 50 
 
OPINION OF THE BENCH 
 
 ceive that some men would be better dead. But who 
 are we to know all the springs of God's unfortunate 
 creatures ? Who are we to trust ourselves where it 
 seems that God himself must think twice before He 
 treads, and to do it with delight ? Yes, with delight. 
 Tigris utaspera." 
 
 " Perhaps not a pleasant spectacle," said Glenalmond. 
 *'And yet, do you know, I think somehow a great 
 one." 
 
 *' I've had a long talk with him to-night," said Ar- 
 chie. 
 
 ** I was supposing so," said Glenalmond. 
 
 "And he struck me 1 cannot deny that he struck 
 
 me as something very big," pursued the son. *' Yes, 
 he is big. He never spoke about himself; only about 
 me. I suppose I admired him. The dreadful part " 
 
 "Suppose we did not talk about that," interrupted 
 Glenalmond. " You know it very well, it cannot in 
 any way help that you should brood upon it, and I 
 sometimes wonder whether you and I — who are a pair 
 of sentimentalists — are quite good judges of plain men." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " asked Archie. 
 
 '' F^/> judges, I mean," replied Glenalmond. *' Can 
 we be just to them ? Do we not ask too much ? There 
 was a word of yours just now that impressed me a little 
 when you asked me who we were to know all the 
 springs of God's unfortunate creatures. You applied 
 that, as I understood, to capital cases only. But does 
 it — I ask myself — does it not apply all through ? Is it 
 any less difficult to judge of a good man or of a half- 
 good man, than of the worst criminal at the bar? And 
 may not each have relevant excuses?" 
 
 5» 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 " Ah, but we do not talk of punishing the good, 
 cried Archie. 
 
 "No, we do not talk of it," said Glenalmond. " Bu* 
 I think we do it. Your father, for instance." 
 
 *' You think I have punished him ?" cried Archie. 
 
 Lord Glenalmond bowed his head. 
 
 "I think I have," said Archie. "And the worst is, 
 I think he feels it! How much, who can tell, with such 
 a being ? But I think he does." 
 
 "And I am sure of it," said Glenalmond. 
 
 " Has he spoken to you, then ?" cried Archie. 
 
 "Oh, no," replied the Judge. 
 
 ** I tell you honestly," said Archie, " I want to make 
 it up to him. I will go, I have already pledged myself 
 to go, to Hermiston. That was to him. And now I 
 pledge myself to you, in the sight of God, that I will 
 close my mouth on capital punishment and all other 
 subjects where our views may clash, for — how long 
 shall I say? when shall I have sense enough? — ten 
 years. Is that well ? " 
 
 " It is well," said my lord. 
 
 "As far as it goes," said Archie. "It is enough as 
 regards myself, it is to lay down enough of my conceit. 
 But as regards him, whom I have publicly insulted ? 
 What am I to do to him ? How do you pay attentions 
 to a — an Alp like that ?" 
 
 "Only in one way," replied Glenalmond. "Only 
 by obedience, punctual, prompt, and scrupulous." 
 
 "And I promise that he shall have it," answered 
 Archie. " I offer you my hand in pledge of it." 
 
 "And I take your hand as a solemnity," replied the 
 Judge. "God bless you, my dear, and enable you to 
 
 5* 
 
OPINION OF THE BENCH 
 
 keep your promise. God guide you in the true way, and 
 spare your days, and preserve to you your honest heart. " 
 At that, he kissed the young man upon the forehead 
 in a gracious, distant, antiquated way; and instantly 
 launched, with a marked change of voice, into another 
 subject. *' And now, let us replenish the tankard; and 
 I believe, if you will try my Cheddar again, you would 
 find you had a better appetite. The Court has spoken, 
 and the case is dismissed." 
 
 *'No, there is one thing I must say," cried Archie. 
 " I must say it in justice to himself. I know — I believe 
 faithfully, slavishly, after our talk — he will never ask 
 me anything unjust. I am proud to feel it, that we 
 have that much in common, I am proud to say it to 
 you." 
 
 The Judge, with shining eyes, raised his tankard. 
 ** And I think perhaps that we might permit ourselves 
 a toast," said he. " I should like to propose the health 
 of a man very different from me and very much my su- 
 perior — a man from whom I have often differed, who 
 has often (in the trivial expression) rubbed me the 
 wrong way, but whom I have never ceased to respect 
 and, I may add, to be not a little afraid of. Shall I givQ 
 you his name ? " 
 
 ''The Lord Justice-Clerk, Lord Hermiston," said 
 Archie, almost with gaiety; and the pair drank the 
 toast deeply. 
 
 It was not precisely easy to re-establish, after these 
 emotional passages, the natural flow of conversation. 
 But the Judge eked out what was wanting with kind 
 looks, produced his snuff-box (which was very rarely 
 seen) to fill in a pause, and at last, despairing of any fur- 
 
 53 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 ther social success, was upon the point of getting down 
 a book to read a favourite passage, when there came a 
 rather startling summons at the front door, and Car- 
 stairs ushered in my Lord Glenkindie, hot from a mid- 
 night supper. I am not aware that Glenkindie was 
 ever a beautiful object, being short, and gross-bodied, 
 and with an expression of sensuality comparable to a 
 bear's. At that moment, coming in hissing from many 
 potations, with a flushed countenance and blurred eyes, 
 he was strikingly contrasted with the tall, pale, kingly 
 figure of Glenalmond. A rush of confused though't 
 came over Archie — of shame that this was one of his 
 father's elect friends; of pride, that at the least of il: 
 Hermiston could carry his liquor; and last of all, of rage, 
 that he should have here under his eye the man that: 
 had betrayed him. And then that too passed away; 
 and he sat quiet, biding his opportunity. 
 
 The tipsy senator plunged at once into an explanation 
 with Glenalmond. There was a point reserved yester- 
 day, he had been able to make neither head nor tail of 
 it, and seeing lights in the house, he had just dropped 
 in for a glass of porter — and at this point he became 
 aware of the third person. Archie saw the cod's mouth 
 and the blunt lips of Glenkindie gape at him for a mo- 
 ment, and the recognition twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 ''Who's this.^" said he. "What? is this possibly 
 you, Don Quickshot? And how are ye? And how's 
 your father ? And what's all this we hear of you ? It 
 seems you're a most extraordinary leveller, by all tales. 
 No king, no parliaments, and your gorge rises at the 
 macers, worthy men! Hoot, too! Dear, dear me! 
 Your father's son too! Most rideekulous! " 
 
 54 
 
OPINION OF THE BENCH 
 
 Archie was on his feet, flushing a little at the reap- 
 pearance of his unhappy figure of speech, but perfectly 
 self-possessed. **My lord — and you, Lord Glenal- 
 mond, my dear friend," he began, **this is a happy 
 chance for me, that I can make my confession and offer 
 my apologies to two of you at once." 
 
 **Ah, but I don't know about that. Confession? 
 It'll be judeecial, my young friend," cried the jocular 
 Glenkindie. '*And I'm afraid to listen to ye. Think 
 if ye were to make me a coanvert! " 
 
 "If you would allow me, my lord," returned Archie, 
 **what I have to say is very serious to me; and be 
 pleased to be humorous after I am gone." 
 
 ** Remember, I'll hear nothing against the macers!" 
 put in the incorrigible Glenkindie. 
 
 But Archie continued as though he had not spoken. 
 '* I have played, both yesterday and to-day, a part for 
 which I can only offer the excuse of youth. I was so 
 unwise as to go to an execution; it seems, I made a 
 scene at the gallows ; not content with which, I spoke 
 the same night in a college society against capital pun- 
 ishment. This is the extent of what I have done, and 
 in case you hear more alleged against me, I protest my 
 innocence. 1 have expressed my regret already to my 
 father, who is so good as to pass my conduct over — 
 in a degree, and upon the condition that I am to leave 
 my law studies." . . . 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 I. AT HERMISTON 
 
 The road to Hermiston runs for a great part of the 
 way up the valley of a stream, a favourite with anglers 
 and with midges, full of falls and pools, and shaded by 
 willows and natural woods of birch. Here and there, 
 but at great distances, a byway branches off, and a 
 gaunt farmhouse may be descried above in a fold of 
 the hill; but the more part of the time, the road would 
 be quite empty of passage and the hills of habitation. 
 Hermiston parish is one of the least populous in Scot- 
 land; and, by the time you came that length, you would 
 scarce be surprised at the inimitable smallness of the 
 kirk, a dwarfish, ancient place seated for fifty, and 
 standing in a green by the burn-side among two-score 
 grave-stones. The manse close by, although no more 
 than a cottage, is surrounded by the brightness of a 
 flower-garden and the straw roofs of bees ; and the whole 
 colony, kirk and manse, garden and graveyard, finds 
 harbourage in a grove of rowans, and is all the year 
 round in a great silence broken only by the drone of the 
 bees, the tinkle of the burn, and the bell on Sundays. 
 A mile beyond the kirk the road leaves the valley by a 
 
 56 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 precipitous ascent, and brings you a little after to the 
 place of Hermiston, where it comes to an end in the 
 back-yard before the coach-house. All beyond and 
 about is the great field of the hills; the plover, the cur- 
 lew, and the lark cry there; the wind blows as it blows 
 in a ship's rigging, hard and cold and pure; and the 
 hill-tops huddle one behind another like a herd of cattle 
 into the sunset. 
 
 The house was sixty years old, unsightly, comfortable; 
 a farmyard and a kitchen garden on the left, with a fruit 
 wall where little hard green pears came to their maturity 
 about the end of October. 
 
 The policy (as who should say the park) was of some 
 extent, but very ill reclaimed; heather and moorfowl 
 had crossed the boundary wall and spread and roosted 
 within; and it would have tasked a landscape gardener 
 to say where policy ended and unpolicied nature began. 
 My lord had been led by the influence of Mr. Sheriff 
 Scott into a considerable design of planting; many acres 
 were accordingly set out with fir, and the little feathery 
 besoms gave a false scale and lent a strange air of a 
 toy-shop to the moors. A great, rooty sweetness of 
 bogs was in the air, and at all seasons an infinite melan- 
 choly piping of hill birds. Standing so high and with 
 so little shelter, it was a cold, exposed house, splashed 
 by showers, drenched by continuous rains that made 
 the gutters to spout, beaten upon and buffeted by all 
 the winds of heaven ; and the prospect would be often 
 black with tempest, and often white with the snows of 
 winter. But the house was wind and weather proof, 
 the hearths were kept bright, and the rooms pleasant 
 with live fires of peat; and Archie might sit of an even- 
 
 57 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 ing and hear the squalls bugle on the moorland, and 
 watch the fire prosper in the earthy fuel, and the smoke 
 winding up the chimney, and drink deep of the pleasures 
 of shelter. 
 
 Solitary as the place was, Archie did not want neigh- 
 bours. Every night, if he chose, he might go down 
 to the manse and share a " brewst " of toddy with the 
 minister — a hare-brained ancient gentleman, long and 
 light and still active, though his knees were loosened 
 with age, and his voice broke continually in childish 
 trebles — and his lady wife, a heavy, comely dame, 
 without a word to say for herself beyond good even 
 and good day. Harum-scarum, clodpole young lairds 
 of the neighbourhood paid him the compliment of a 
 visit. Young Hay of Romanes rode down to call, on 
 his crop-eared pony; young Pringle of Drumanno came 
 up on his bony grey. Hay remained on the hospitable 
 field, and must be carried to bed ; Pringle got somehow 
 to his saddle about 3 a.m., and (as Archie stood with 
 the lamp on the upper doorstep) lurched, uttered a 
 senseless view halloa, and vanished out of the small 
 circle of illumination like a wraith. Yet a minute or two 
 longer the clatter of his break-neck flight was audible, 
 then it was cut off by the intervening steepness of the 
 hill; and again, a great while after, the renewed beating 
 of phantom horse-hoofs, far in the valley of the Hermis- 
 ton, showed that the horse at least, if not his rider, was 
 still on the homeward way. 
 
 There was a Tuesday club at the ''Crosskeys" in 
 Crossmichael, where the young bloods of the country- 
 side congregated and drank deep on a percentage of the 
 expense, so that he was left gainer who should have 
 
 58 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 drunk the most. Archie had no great mind to this diver- 
 sion, but he took it like a duty laid upon him, went 
 with a decent regularity, did his manfullest with the 
 liquor, held up his head in the local jests, and got home 
 again and was able to put up his horse, to the admiration 
 of Kirstie and the lass that helped her. He dined at 
 Driffel, supped at Windielaws. He went to the new 
 year's ball at Huntsfield and was made welcome, and 
 thereafter rode to hounds with my Lord Muirfell, upon 
 whose name, as that of a legitimate Lord of Parliament, 
 in a work so full of Lords of Session, my pen should 
 pause reverently. Yet the same fate attended him here 
 as in Edinburgh. The habit of solitude tends to perpet- 
 uate itself, and an austerity of which he was quite un- 
 conscious, and a pride which seemed arrogance, and 
 perhaps was chiefly shyness, discouraged and offended 
 his new companions. Hay did not return more than 
 twice, Pringle never at all, and there came a time when 
 Archie even desisted from the Tuesday Club, and be- 
 came in all things — what he had had the name of al- 
 most from the first — the Recluse of Hermiston. High- 
 nosed Miss Pringle of Drumanno and high-stepping Miss 
 Marshall of the Mains were understood to have had a 
 difference of opinion about him the day after the ball — 
 he was none the wiser, he could not suppose himself to 
 be remarked by these entrancing ladies. At the ball it- 
 self my Lord Muirfell's daughter, the Lady Flora, spoke 
 to him twice, and the second time with a touch of ap- 
 peal, so that her colour rose and her voice trembled a 
 little in his ear, like a passing grace in music. He 
 stepped back with a heart on fire, coldly and not un- 
 gracefully excused himself, and a little after watched her 
 
 59 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 dancing with young Drumanno of the empty laugh, 
 and was harrowed at the sight, and raged to himself 
 that this was a world in which it was given to Druman- 
 no to please, and to himself only to stand aside and 
 envy. He seemed excluded, as of right, from the favour 
 of such society — seemed to extinguish mirth wherever 
 he came, and was quick to feel the wound, and desist, 
 and retire into solitude. If he had but understood the 
 figure he presented, and the impression he made on 
 these bright eyes and tender hearts ; if he had but guessed 
 that the Recluse of Hermiston, young, graceful, well- 
 spoken, but always cold, stirred the maidens of the 
 county with the charm of Byronism when Byronism 
 was new, it may be questioned whether his destiny 
 might not even yet have been modified. It may be 
 questioned, and I think it should be doubted. It was 
 in his horoscope to be parsimonious of pain to himself, 
 or of the chance of pain, even to the avoidance of any 
 opportunity of pleasure; to have a Roman sense of duty, 
 an instinctive aristocracy of manners and taste; to be 
 the son of Adam Weir and Jean Rutherford. 
 
 II. KIRSTIE 
 
 KiRSTiE was now over fifty, and might have sat to a 
 sculptor. Long of limb and still light of foot, deep- 
 breasted, robust-loined, her golden hair not yet mingled 
 with any trace of silver, the years had but caressed and 
 embellished her. By the lines of a rich and vigorous 
 maternity, she seemed destined to be the bride of heroes 
 and the mother of their children; and behold, by the 
 iniquity of fate, she had passed through her youth alone, 
 
 60 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 and drew near to the confines of age, a childless wo- 
 man. The tender ambitions that she had received at 
 birth had been, by time and disappointment, diverted 
 into a certain barren zeal of industry and fury of inter- 
 ference. She carried her thwarted ardours into house- 
 work, she washed floors with her empty heart. If she 
 could not win the love of one with love, she must dom- 
 inate all by her temper. Hasty, wordy, and wrathful, 
 she had a drawn quarrel with most of her neighbours, 
 and with the others not much more than armed neu- 
 trality. The grieve's wife had been ''sneisty;" the 
 sister of the gardener, who kept house for him, had 
 shown herself " upsitten; " and she wrote to Lord Her- 
 miston about once a year demanding the discharge of 
 the offenders, and justifying the demand by much 
 wealth of detail. For it must not be supposed that the 
 quarrel rested with the wife and did not take in the hus- 
 band also — or with the gardener's sister, and did not 
 speedily include the gardener himself As the upshot 
 of all this petty quarrelling and intemperate speech, she 
 was practically excluded (like a lightkeeper on his 
 tower) from the comforts of human association ; except 
 with her own indoor drudge, who, being but a lassie 
 and entirely at her mercy, must submit to the shifty 
 weather of "the mistress's " moods without complaint, 
 and be willing to take buffets or caresses according to 
 the temper of the hour. To Kirstie, thus situate and in 
 the Indian summer of her heart, which was slow to sub- 
 mit to age, the gods sent this equivocal good thing of 
 Archie's presence. She had known him in the cradle 
 and paddled him when he misbehaved; and yet, as she 
 had not so much as set eyes on him since he was eleven 
 
 6i 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 and had his last serious illness, the tall, slender, refined, 
 and rather melancholy young gentleman of twenty 
 came upon her with the shock of a new acquaintance. 
 He was "Young Hermiston," "the laird himsel';" he 
 had an air of distinctive superiority, a cold straight glance 
 of his black eyes, that abashed the woman's tantrums in 
 the beginning, and therefore the possibility of any quar- 
 rel was excluded. He was new, and therefore imme- 
 diately aroused her curiosity; he was reticent, and kept 
 it awake. And lastly he was dark and she fair, and 
 he was male and she female, the everlasting fountains 
 of interest. 
 
 Her feeling partook of the loyalty of a clanswoman, 
 the hero-worship of a maiden aunt, and the idolatry due 
 to a god. No matter what he had asked of her, ridicu- 
 lous or tragic, she would have done it and joyed to do 
 it. Her passion, for it was nothing less, entirely filled 
 her. It was a rich physical pleasure to make his bed or 
 light his lamp for him when he was absent, to pull off 
 his wet boots or wait on him at dinner when he re- 
 turned. A young man who should have so doted on 
 the idea, moral and physical, of any woman, might be 
 properly described as being in love, head and heels, 
 and would have behaved himself accordingly. But 
 Kirstie — though her heart leaped at his coming foot- 
 steps — though, when he patted her shoulder, her face 
 brightened for the day — had not a hope or thought be- 
 yond the present moment and its perpetuation to the 
 end of time. Till the end of time she would have had 
 nothing altered, but still continue delightedly to serve 
 her idol, and be repaid (say twice in the month) with a 
 clap on the shoulder. 
 
 62 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 I have said her heart leaped — it is the accepted phrase. 
 But rather, when she was alone in any chamber of the 
 house, and heard his foot passing on the corridors, 
 something in her bosom rose slowly until her breath 
 was suspended, and as slowly fell again with a deep 
 sigh, when the steps had passed and she was disap- 
 pointed of her eyes' desire. This perpetual hunger and 
 thirst of his presence kept her all day on the alert. 
 When he went forth at morning, she would stand and 
 follow him with admiring looks. As it grew late and 
 drew to the time of his return, she would steal forth to 
 a corner of the policy wall and be seen standing there 
 sometimes by the hour together, gazing with shaded 
 eyes, waiting the exquisite and barren pleasure of his 
 view a mile off on the mountains. When at night she 
 had trimmed and gathered the fire, turned down his 
 bed, and laid out his night-gear — when there was no 
 more to be done for the king's pleasure, but to remem- 
 ber him fervently in her usually very tepid prayers, and 
 go to bed brooding upon his perfections, his future 
 career, and what she should give him the next day for 
 dinner — there still remained before her one more op- 
 portunity; she was still to take in the tray and say 
 good-night. Sometimes Archie would glance up from 
 his book with a pre-occupied nod and a perfunctory 
 salutation which was in truth a dismissal; sometimes — 
 and by degrees more often — the volume would be laid 
 aside, he would meet her coming with a look of relief; 
 and the conversation would be engaged, last out the 
 supper, and be prolonged till the small hours by the 
 waning fire. It was no wonder that Archie was fond 
 of company after his solitary days; and Kirstie, upon 
 
 6^ 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 her side, exerted all the arts of her vigorous nature to en- 
 snare his attention. She would keep back some piece 
 of news during dinner to be fired off with the entrance 
 of the supper tray, and form as it were the lever de 
 rideau of the evening's entertainment. Once he had 
 heard her tongue wag, she made sure of the result. 
 From one subject to another she moved by insidious 
 transitions, fearing the least silence, fearing almost to 
 give him time for an answer lest it should slip into a 
 hint of separation. Like so many people of her class, 
 she was a brave narrator; her place was on the hearth- 
 rug and she made it a rostrum, miming her stories as 
 she told them, fitting them with vital detail, spinning 
 them out with endless **quo' he's" and ''quo' she's," 
 her voice sinking into a whisper over the supernatural 
 or the horrific ; until she would suddenly spring up in 
 affected surprise, and pointing to the clock, "Mercy, 
 Mr. Archie! " she would say, " Whatten a time o' night 
 is this of it! God forgive me for a daft wife! " So it 
 befell, by good management, that she was not only the 
 first to begin these nocturnal conversations, but inva- 
 riably the first to break them off; so she managed to 
 retire and not to be dismissed. 
 
 III. A BORDER FAMILY 
 
 Such an unequal intimacy has never been un- 
 common in Scotland, where the clan spirit survives; 
 where the servant tends to spend her life in the same 
 service, a helpmeet at first, then a tyrant, and at last 
 a pensioner; where, besides, she is not necessarily 
 destitute of the pride of birth, but is, perhaps, like 
 
 64 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 Kirstie, a connection of her master's, and at least 
 knows the legend of her own family, and may count 
 kinship with some illustrious dead. For that is the 
 mark of the Scot of all classes: that he stands in an 
 attitude towards the past unthinkable to Englishmen, 
 and remembers and cherishes the memory of his for- 
 bears, good or bad ; and there burns alive in him a sense 
 of identity with the dead even to the twentieth gen- 
 eration. No more characteristic instance could be found 
 than in the family of Kirstie Elliott. They were all, and 
 Kirstie the first of all, ready and eager to pour forth the 
 particulars of their genealogy, embellished with every 
 detail that memory had handed down or fancy fabri- 
 cated ; and, behold ! from every ramification of that tree 
 there dangled a halter. The Elliotts themselves have 
 had a chequered history; but these Elliotts deduced, 
 besides, from three of the most unfortunate of the bor- 
 der clans — the Nicksons, the Ellwalds, and the Crozers. 
 One ancestor after another might be seen appearing a 
 moment out of the rain and the hill mist upon his fur- 
 tive business, speeding home, perhaps, with a paltry 
 booty of lame horses and lean kine, or squealing and 
 dealing death in some moorland feud of the ferrets and 
 the wildcats. One after another closed his obscure ad- 
 ventures in mid-air, triced up to the arm of the royal 
 gibbet or the Baron's dule-tree. For the rusty blunder- 
 buss of Scots criminal justice, which usually hurts no- 
 body but jurymen, became a weapon of precision for 
 the Nicksons, the Ellwalds, and the Crozers. The ex- 
 hilaration of their exploits seemed to haunt the memo- 
 ries of their descendants alone, and the shame to be 
 forgotten. Pride glowed in their bosoms to publish 
 
 65 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 their relationship to " Andrew Ellwald of the Laverock- 
 stanes, called * Unchancy Dand,' who was justifeed wi' 
 seeven mair of the same name at Jeddart in the days of 
 King James the Sax." In all this tissue of crime and 
 misfortune, the Elliotts of Cauldstaneslap had one boast 
 which must appear legitimate: the males were gallows- 
 birds, born outlaws, petty thieves, and deadly brawlers ; 
 but according to the same tradition, the females were 
 all chaste and faithful. The power of ancestry on the 
 character is not limited to the inheritance of cells. If I 
 buy ancestors by the gross from the benevolence of Lion 
 King at Arms, my grandson (if he is Scottish) will feel 
 a quickening emulation of their deeds. The men of the 
 Elliotts were proud, lawless, violent as of right, cherish- 
 ing and prolonging a tradition. In like manner with 
 the women. And the woman, essentially passionate 
 and reckless, who crouched on the rug, in the shine 
 of the peat fire, telling these tales, had cherished through 
 life a wild integrity of virtue. 
 
 Her father Gilbert had been deeply pious, a savage 
 disciplinarian in the antique style, and withal a notori- 
 ous smuggler. "I mind when I was a bairn getting 
 mony a skelp and being shoo'd to bed like pou'try," 
 she would say. "That would be when the lads and 
 their bit kegs were on the road. We've had the rififraff 
 of two-three counties in our kitchen, mony's the time, 
 betwix' the twelve and the three; and their lanterns 
 would be standing in the forecourt, ay, a score o' them 
 at once. But there was nae ungodly talk permitted at 
 Cauldstaneslap; my faither was a consistent man in 
 walk and conversation; just let slip an aith, and there 
 was the door to ye I He had that zeal for the Lord, it 
 
 66 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 was a fair wonder to hear him pray, but the faimily has 
 aye had a gift that way." This father was twice mar- 
 ried, once to a dark woman of the old Ellwald stock, 
 by whom he had Gilbert, presently of Cauldstaneslap; 
 and, secondly, to the mother of Kirstie. "He was an 
 auld man when he married her, a fell auld man wi' a 
 muckle voice — you could hear him rowting from the 
 top o' the kye-stairs," she said; "but for her, it ap- 
 pears, she was a perfit wonder. It was gentle blood 
 she had, Mr. Archie, for it was your ain. The country- 
 side gaed gyte about her and her gowden hair. Mines 
 is no to be mentioned wi' it, and there's few weemen 
 has mair hair than what I have, or yet a bonnier colour. 
 Often would I tell my dear Miss Jeannie — that was 
 your mother, dear, she was cruel ta'en up about her 
 hair, it was unco tender, ye see — 'Houts, Miss Jean- 
 nie,' I would say, *just fling your washes and your 
 French dentifrishes in the back o' the fire, for that's the 
 place for them; and awa' down to a burn-side, and 
 wash yersel in cauld hill water, and dry your bonny 
 hair in the caller wind o' the muirs, the way that my 
 mother aye washed hers, and that I have aye made it a 
 practice to have washen mines — just you do what I 
 tell ye, my dear, and ye'll give me news of it! Ye'll 
 have hair, and routh of hair, a pigtail as thick's my arm,' 
 I said, * and the bonniest colour like the clear gowden 
 guineas, so as the lads in kirk'll no can keep their eyes 
 off it!* Weel, it lasted out her time, puir thing! I 
 cuttit a lock of it upon her corp that was lying there 
 sae cauld. I'll show it ye some of thir days if ye're 
 
 good. But, as I was sayin', my mither " 
 
 On the death of the father there remained golden- 
 67 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 haired Kirstie, who took service with her distant kins- 
 folk, the Rutherfords, and black-a-vised Gilbert, twenty 
 years older, who farmed the Cauldstaneslap, married, 
 and begot four sons between 1773 and 1784, and a 
 daughter, like a postscript, in '97, the year of Camper- 
 down and Cape St. Vincent. It seemed it was a tradi- 
 tion of the family to wind up with a belated girl. In 
 1804, at the age of sixty, Gilbert met an end that might 
 be called heroic. He was due home from market any 
 time from eight at night till five in the morning, and in 
 any condition from the quarrelsome to the speechless, 
 for he maintained to that age the goodly customs of the 
 Scots farmer. It was known on this occasion that he 
 had a good bit of money to bring home; the word had 
 gone round loosely. The laird had shown his guineas, 
 and if anybody had but noticed it, there was an ill- 
 looking, vagabond crew, the scum of Edinburgh, that 
 drew out of the market long ere it was dusk and took 
 the hill-road by Hermiston, where it was not to be be- 
 lieved that they had lawful business. One of the coun- 
 try-side, one Dickieson, they took with them to be their 
 guide, and dear he paid for it! Of a sudden, in the ford 
 of the Broken Dykes, this vermin clan fell on the laird, 
 six to one, and him three parts asleep, having drunk 
 hard. But it is ill to catch an Elliott. For awhile, in 
 the night and the black water that was deep as to his 
 saddle-girths, he wrought with his staff like a smith at 
 his stithy, and great was the sound of oaths and blows. 
 With that the ambuscade was burst, and he rode for 
 home with a pistol-ball in him, three knife-wounds, the 
 loss of his front teeth, a broken rib and bridle, and a 
 dying horse. That was a race with death that the 
 
 68 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 laird rode! In the mirk night, with his broken bridle 
 and his head swimming, he dug his spurs to the rowels 
 in the horse's side, and the horse, that was even worse 
 off than himself, the poor creature! screamed out loud 
 like a person as he went, so that the hills echoed with 
 it, and the folks at Cauldstaneslap got to their feet about 
 the table and looked at each other with white faces. 
 The horse fell dead at the yard gate, the laird won the 
 length of the house and fell there on the threshold. To 
 the son that raised him he gave the bag of money. 
 " Hae," said he. All the way up the thieves had seemed 
 to him to be at his heels, but now the hallucination left 
 him — he saw them again in the place of the ambus- 
 cade — and the thirst of vengeance seized on his dying 
 mind. Raising himself and pointing with an imperious 
 finger into the black night from which he had come, 
 he uttered the single command, " Brocken Dykes," and 
 fainted. He had never been loved, but he had been 
 feared in honour. At that sight, at that word, gasped 
 out at them from a toothless and bleeding mouth, the 
 old Elliott spirit awoke with a shout in the four sons. 
 "Wanting the hat," continues my author, Kirstie, 
 whom I but haltingly follow, for she told this tale like 
 one inspired, ** wanting guns, for there wasnae twa 
 grains o' pouder in the house, wi' nae mair weepons 
 than their sticks into their hands, the fower o' them 
 took the road. Only Hob, and that was the eldest, 
 hunkered at the door-sill where the blood had rin, fyled 
 his hand wi' it, and haddit it up to Heeven in the way 
 o' the auld Border aith. ' Hell shall have her ain again 
 this nicht! ' he raired, and rode forth upon his errand." 
 It was three miles to Broken Dykes, down hill, and a 
 
 69 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 sore road. Kirstie has seen men from Edinburgh dis- 
 mounting there in plain day to lead their horses. But 
 the four brothers rode it as if Auld Hornie were behind 
 and Heaven in front. Come to the ford, and there was 
 Dickieson. By all tales, he was not dead, but breathed 
 and reared upon his elbow, and cried out to them for 
 help. It was at a graceless face that he asked mercy. 
 As soon as Hob saw, by the glint of the lantern, the 
 eyes shining and the whiteness of the teeth in the man's 
 face, **Damn you!" says he; **ye hae your teeth, hae 
 ye?" and rode his horse to and fro upon that human 
 remnant. Beyond that, Dandie must dismount with 
 the lantern to be their guide; he was the youngest son, 
 scarce twenty at the time. "A' nicht long they gaed 
 in the wet heath and jennipers, and whaur they gaed 
 they neither knew nor cared, but just followed the 
 bluidstains and the footprints o' their faither's murder- 
 ers. And a' nicht Dandie had his nose to the grund 
 like a tyke, and the ithers followed and spak' naething, 
 neither black nor white. There was nae noise to be 
 heard, but just the sough of the swalled burns, and 
 Hob, the dour yin, risping his teeth as he gaed." With 
 the first glint of the morning they saw they were on the 
 drove road, and at that the four stopped and had a dram 
 to their breakfasts, for they knew that Dand must have 
 guided them right, and the rogues could be but little 
 ahead, hot foot for Edinburgh by the way of the Pent- 
 land Hills. By eight o'clock they had word of them — 
 a shepherd had seen four men " uncoly mishandled" go 
 by in the last hour. '* That's yin a piece," says Clem, 
 and swung his cudgel. '*Five o' them!" says Hob. 
 "God's death, but the faither was a man! And him 
 
 70 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 drunk!" And then there befell them what my author 
 termed "a sair misbegowk," for they were overtaken 
 by a posse of mounted neighbours come to aid in the 
 pursuit. Four sour faces looked on the reinforcement. 
 " The deil's broughten you! " said Clem, and they rode 
 thenceforward in the rear of the party with hanging 
 heads. Before ten they had found and secured the 
 rogues, and by three of the afternoon, as they rode up 
 the Vennel with their prisoners, they were aware of a 
 concourse of people bearing in their midst something 
 that dripped. "For the boady of the saxt," pursued 
 Kirstie, "wi' his head smashed like a hazelnit, had 
 been a' that nicht in the chairge o' Hermiston Water, 
 and it dunting it on the stanes, and grunding it on the 
 shallows, and flinging the deid thing heels-ower-hurdie 
 at the Fa's o' Spango ; and in the first o' the day Tweed 
 had got a hold o' him and carried him off like a wind, 
 for it was uncoly swalled and raced wi' him, bobbing 
 under braesides, and was long playing with the crea- 
 ture in the drumlie lynns under the castle, and at the 
 hinder end of all cuist him up on the starling of Cross- 
 michael brig. Sae there they were a' thegither at last 
 (for Dickieson had been brought in on a cart long syne), 
 and folk could see what mainner o' man my brither had 
 been that had held his head again sax and saved the 
 siller, and him drunk!" Thus died of honourable in- 
 juries and in the savour of fame Gilbert Elliott of the 
 Cauldstaneslap; but his sons had scarce less glory out 
 of the business. Their savage haste, the skill with 
 which Dand had found and followed the trail, the bar- 
 barity to the wounded Dickieson (which was like an 
 open secret in the county) and the doom which it was 
 
 7» 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 currently supposed they had intended for the others, 
 struck and stirred popular imagination. Some century 
 earlier the last of the minstrels might have fashioned the 
 last of the ballads out of that Homeric fight and chase; 
 but the spirit was dead, or had been reincarnated al- 
 ready in Mr. Sheriff Scott, and the degenerate moorsmen 
 must be content to tell the tale in prose and to make of 
 the "Four Black Brothers" a unit after the fashion of 
 the "Twelve Apostles" or the "Three Musketeers." 
 
 Robert, Gilbert, Clement, and Andrew — in the 
 proper Border diminutive, Hob, Gib, Clem, and Dand 
 Elliott — these ballad heroes had much in common; in 
 particular, their high sense of the family and the family 
 honour; but they went diverse ways, and prospered 
 and failed in different businesses. According to Kirs- 
 tie, " they had a' bees in their bonnets but Hob." Hob 
 the laird was, indeed, essentially a decent man. An 
 elder of the Kirk, nobody had heard an oath upon his 
 lips, save, perhaps, thrice or so at the sheep-washing, 
 since the chase of his father's murderers. The figure 
 he had shown on that eventful night disappeared as if 
 swallowed by a trap. He who had ecstatically dipped 
 his hand in the red blood, he who had ridden down 
 Dickieson, became, from that moment on, a stiff and 
 rather graceless model of the rustic proprieties ; cannily 
 profiting by the high war prices, and yearly stowing 
 away a little nest-egg in the bank against calamity; ap- 
 proved of and sometimes consulted by the greater lairds 
 for the massive and placid sense of what he said, when 
 he could be induced to say anything; and particularly 
 valued by the minister, Mr. Torrance, as a righthand 
 man in the parish, and a model to parents. The trans- 
 
 72 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 figuration had been for the moment only; some Bar- 
 barossa, some old Adam of our ancestors, sleeps in all 
 of us till the fit circumstance shall call it into action ; 
 and for as sober as he now seemed, Hob had given once 
 for all the measure of the devil that haunted him. He 
 was married, and, by reason of the effulgence of that 
 legendary night, was adored by his wife. He had a 
 mob of little lusty, barefoot children who marched in a 
 caravan the long miles to school, the stages of whose 
 pilgrimage were marked by acts of spoliation and mis- 
 chief, and who were qualified in the country-side as 
 **fair pests." But in the house, if " faither was in," 
 they were quiet as mice. In short. Hob moved through 
 life in a great peace — the reward of anyone who shall 
 have killed his man, with any formidable and figurative 
 circumstance, in the midst of a country gagged and 
 swaddled with civilisation. 
 
 It was a current remark that the Elliotts were " guid 
 and bad, like sanguishes"; and certainly there was a 
 curious distinction, the men of business coming alter- 
 nately with the dreamers. The second brother, Gib, 
 was a weaver by trade, had gone out early into the 
 world to Edinburgh, and come home again with his 
 wings singed. There was an exaltation in his nature 
 which had led him to embrace with enthusiasm the 
 principles of the French Revolution, and had ended by 
 bringing him under the hawse of my Lord Hermiston 
 in that furious onslaught of his upon the Liberals, which 
 sent Muir and Palmer into exile and dashed the party 
 into chaff. It was whispered that my lord, in his great 
 scorn for the movement, and prevailed upon a little by 
 a sense of neighbourliness, had given Gib a hint. Meet- 
 
 73 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 ing him one day in the Potterrow, my lord had stopped 
 in front of him. "Gib, ye eediot," he had said, 
 '* what's this I hear of you ? Poalitics, poalitics, poali- 
 tics, weaver's poalitics, is the way of it, I hear. If ye 
 arenae a' thegether dozened with eediocy, ye'll gang 
 your ways back to Cauldstaneslap, and ca* your loom, 
 and ca' your loom, man ! " And Gilbert had taken him 
 at the word and returned, with an expedition almost to 
 be called flight, to the house of his father. The clearest 
 of his inheritance was that family gift of prayer of which 
 Kirstie had boasted; and the baffled politician now 
 turned his attention to religious matters — or, as others 
 said, to heresy and schism. Every Sunday morning he 
 was in Crossmichael, where he had gathered together, 
 one by one, a sect of about a dozen persons, who called 
 themselves "God's Remnant of the True Faithful," or, 
 for short, "God's Remnant." To the profane, they were 
 known as " Gib's Deils." Baillie Sweedie, a noted hu- 
 morist in the town, vowed that the proceedings always 
 opened to the tune of "The Deil Fly Away with the 
 Exciseman," and that the sacrament was dispensed in 
 the form of hot whisky toddy; both wicked hits at 
 the evangelist, who had been suspected of smuggling 
 in his youth, and had been overtaken (as the phrase 
 went) on the streets of Crossmichael one Fair day. It 
 was known that every Sunday they prayed for a bless- 
 ing on the arms of Bonaparte. For this, " God's Rem- 
 nant," as they were "skailing" from the cottage that 
 did duty for a temple, had been repeatedly stoned by the 
 bairns, and Gib himself hooted by a squadron of Border 
 volunteers in which his own brother, Dand, rode in a 
 uniform and with a drawn sword. The " Remnant" 
 
 74 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 were believed, besides, to be *' antinomian in principle," 
 which might otherwise have been a serious charge, but 
 the way public opinion then blew it was quite swal- 
 lowed up and forgotten in the scandal about Bonaparte. 
 For the rest, Gilbert had set up his loom in an outhouse 
 at Cauldstaneslap, where he laboured assiduously six 
 days of the week. His brothers, appalled by his polit- 
 ical opinions and willing to avoid dissension in the 
 household, spoke but little to him ; he less to them, re- 
 maining absorbed in the study of the Bible and almost 
 constant prayer. The gaunt weaver was dry-nurse at 
 Cauldstaneslap, and the bairns loved him dearly. Ex- 
 cept when he was carrying an infant in his arms, he 
 was rarely seen to smile — as, indeed, there were few 
 smilers in that family. When his sister-in-law rallied 
 him, and proposed that he should get a wife and bairns 
 of his own, since he was so fond of them, " I have no 
 clearness of mind upon that point," he would reply. If 
 nobody called him in to dinner, he stayed out. Mrs. 
 Hob, a hard, unsympathetic woman, once tried the ex- 
 periment. He went without food all day, but at dusk, 
 as the light began to fail him, he came into the house of 
 his own accord, looking puzzled. "I've had a great 
 gale of prayer upon my speerit," said he. *M canna 
 mind sae muckle's what I had for denner." The creed 
 of God's Remnant was justified in the life of its founder. 
 "And yet I dinna ken," said Kirstie. "He's maybe 
 no more stockfish than his neeghbours! He rode wi' 
 the rest o' them, and had a good stamach to the work, 
 by a' that I hear! God's Remnant! The deil's clavers! 
 There wasna muckle Christianity in the way Hob guided 
 Johnny Dickieson, at the least of it; but Guid kens! Is 
 
 75 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 he a Christian even ? He might be a Mahommedan or 
 a Deevil or a Fireworshipper, for what I ken." 
 
 The third brother had his name on a door-plate, no 
 less, in the city of Glasgow. " Mr. Clement Elliott," as 
 long as your arm. In his case, that spirit of innovation 
 which had shown itself timidly in the case of Hob by the 
 admission of new manures, and which had run to waste 
 with Gilbert in subversive politics and heretical religions, 
 bore useful fruit in many ingenious mechanical improve- 
 ments. In boyhood, from his addiction to strange de- 
 vices of sticks and string, he had been counted the most 
 eccentric of the family. But that was all by now, and 
 he was a partner of his firm, and looked to die a baillie. 
 He too had married, and was rearing a plentiful family 
 in the smoke and din of Glasgow; he was wealthy, and 
 could have bought out his brother, the cock-laird, six 
 times over, it was whispered; and when he slipped 
 away to Cauldstaneslap for a well-earned holiday, which 
 he did as often as he was able, he astonished the neigh- 
 bours with his broadcloth, his beaver hat, and the am- 
 ple plies of his neck-cloth. Though an eminently solid 
 man at bottom, after the pattern of Hob, he had con- 
 tracted a certain Glasgow briskness and aplomb which 
 set him off. All the other Elliotts were as lean as a 
 rake, but Clement was laying on fat, and he panted 
 sorely when he must get into his boots. Dand said, 
 chuckling: "Ay, Clem has the elements of a corpora- 
 tion." "A provost and corporation," returned Clem. 
 And his readiness was much admired. 
 
 The fourth brother, Dand, was a shepherd to his 
 trade, and by starts, when he could bring his mind to 
 it, excelled in the business. Nobody could train a dog 
 
 76 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 like Dandie; nobody, through the peril of great storms 
 in the winter time, could do more gallantly. But if his 
 dexterity were exquisite, his diligence was but fitful; 
 and he served his brother for bed and board, and a 
 trifle of pocket-money when he asked for it. He loved 
 money well enough, knew very well how to spend it, 
 and could make a shrewd bargain when he liked. But 
 he preferred a vague knowledge that he was well to 
 windward to any counted coins in the pocket; he felt 
 himself richer so. Hob would expostulate: 'M'm an 
 amature herd," Dand would reply: "I'll keep your 
 sheep to you when I'm so minded, but I'll keep my 
 liberty too. Thir's no -man can coandescend on what 
 I'm worth." Clem would expound to him the miracu- 
 lous results of compound interest, and recommend in- 
 vestments. '*Ay, man?" Dand would say, ** and do 
 you think, if I took Hob's siller, that I wouldna drink it 
 or wear it on the lassies? And, anyway, my kingdom 
 is no of this world. Either I'm a poet or else I'm noth- 
 ing." Clem would remind him of old age. *M'll die 
 young, like Robbie Burns," he would say stoutly. No 
 question but he had a certain accomplishment in minor 
 verse. His " Hermiston Burn," with its pretty refrain — 
 
 I love to gang thinking whaur ye gang linking, 
 Hermiston burn, in the howe; 
 
 his ** Auld, auld Elliotts, clay-cauld Elliotts, dour, bauld 
 Elliotts of auld," and his really fascinating piece about the 
 Praying Weaver's Stone, had gained him in the neigh- 
 bourhood the reputation, still possible in Scotland, of a lo- 
 cal bard; and, though not printed himself, he was recog- 
 nized by others who were and who had become famous. 
 
 77 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 Walter Scott owed to Dandie the text of the " Raid of 
 Wearie " in the Minstrelsy and made him welcome at his 
 house, and appreciated his talents, such as they were, with 
 all his usual generosity. The Ettrick Shepherd was his 
 sworn crony; they would meet, drink to excess, roar 
 out their lyrics in each other's faces, and quarrel and 
 make it up again till bedtime. And besides these recog- 
 nitions, almost to be called official, Dandie was made 
 welcome for the sake of his gift through the farmhouses 
 of several contiguous dales, and was thus exposed to mani- 
 fold temptations which he rather sought than fled. He had 
 figured on the stool of repentance, for once fulfilling to 
 the letter the tradition of his hero and model. His 
 humorous verses to Mr. Torrance on that occasion — 
 " Kenspeckle here my lane I stand " — unfortunately too 
 indelicate for further citation, ran through the country 
 like a fiery cross ; they were recited, quoted, paraphrased 
 and laughed over as far away as Dumfries on the one 
 hand and Dunbar on the other. 
 
 These four brothers were united by a close bond, the 
 bond of that mutual admiration — or rather mutual hero- 
 worship — which is so strong among the members of 
 secluded families who have much ability and little cul- 
 ture. Even the extremes admired each other. Hob, 
 who had as much poetry as the tongs, professed to 
 find pleasure in Dand's verses; Clem, who had no more 
 religion than Claverhouse, nourished a heartfelt, at least 
 an open-mouthed, admiration of Gib's prayers; and 
 Dandie followed with relish the rise of Clem's fortunes. 
 Indulgence followed hard on the heels of admiration. 
 The laird, Clem and Dand, who were Tories and patri- 
 ots of the hottest quality, excused to themselves, with 
 
 78 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 a certain bashfulness, the radical and revolutionary her- 
 esies of Gib. By another division of the family, the 
 laird, Clem, and Gib, who were men exactly virtuous, 
 swallowed the dose of Dand's irregularities as a kind 
 of clog or drawback in the mysterious providence of 
 God affixed to bards, and distinctly probative of poetical 
 genius. To appreciate the simplicity of their mutual 
 admiration, it was necessary to hear Clem, arrived upon 
 one of his visits, and dealing in a spirit of continuous 
 irony with the affairs and personalities of that great city 
 of Glasgow where he lived and transacted business. 
 The various personages, ministers of the church, mu- 
 nicipal officers, mercantile big-wigs, whom he had oc- 
 casion to introduce, were all alike denigrated, all served 
 but as reflectors to cast back a flattering side-light on 
 the house of Cauldstaneslap. The Provost, for whom 
 Clem by exception entertained a measure of respect, he 
 would liken to Hob. **He minds me o' the laird 
 there," he would say. " He has some of Hob's grand, 
 whun-stane sense, and the same way with him of steik- 
 ing his mouth when he's no very pleased." And Hob, 
 all unconscious, would draw down his upper lip and 
 produce, as if for comparison, the formidable grimace 
 referred to. The unsatisfactory incumbent of St. 
 Enoch's Kirk was thus briefly dismissed: *'If he had 
 but twa fingers o' Gib's he would waken them up." 
 And Gib, honest man ! would look down and secretly 
 smile. Clem was a spy whom they had sent out into 
 the world of men. He had come back with the good 
 news that there was nobody to compare with the Four 
 Black Brothers, no position that they would not adorn, 
 no official that it would not be well they should replace, 
 
 79 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 no interest of mankind, secular or spiritual, which 
 would not immediately bloom under their supervision. 
 The excuse of their folly is in two words: scarce the 
 breadth of a hair divided them from the peasantry. 
 The measure of their sense is this: that these symposia 
 of rustic vanity were kept entirely within the family, 
 like some secret ancestral practice. To the world their 
 serious faces were never deformed by the suspicion of 
 any simper of self-contentment. Yet it was known. 
 "They hae a guid pride o' themsel's!" was the word 
 in the country-side. 
 
 Lastly, in a Border story, there should be added their 
 '* two-names." Hob was The Laird. "Roy ne puis, 
 prince ne daigne " ; he was the laird of Cauldstaneslap — 
 say fifty acres — ipsissimus. Clement was Mr. Elliott, 
 as upon his door-plate, the earlier Dafty having been 
 discarded as no longer applicable, and indeed only a re- 
 minder of misjudgment and the imbecility of the public; 
 and the youngest, in honour of his perpetual wander- 
 ings, was known by the sobriquet of Randy Dand. 
 
 It will be understood that not all this information was 
 communicated by the aunt, who had too much of the 
 family failing herself to appreciate it thoroughly in 
 others. But as time went on, Archie began to observe 
 an omission in the family chronicle. 
 
 **Is there not a girl too?" he asked. 
 
 "Ay. Kirstie. She was named from me, or my 
 grandmother at least — it's the same thing," returned 
 the aunt, and went on again about Dand, whom she 
 secretly preferred by reason of his gallantries. 
 
 "But what is your niece like?" said Archie at the 
 next opportunity. 
 
 80 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 '*Her? As black's your hat! But I dinna suppose 
 she would maybe be what you would ca' ill-looked a' 
 thegither. Na, she's a kind of a handsome jaud — a 
 kind o' gipsy," said the aunt, who had two sets of 
 scales for men and women — or perhaps it would be 
 more fair to say that she had three, and the third and 
 the most loaded was for girls. 
 
 "How comes it that I never see her in church?" 
 said Archie. 
 
 "'Deed, and I believe she's in Glesgie with Clem 
 and his wife. A heap good she's like to get of it! I 
 dinna say for men folk, but where weemen folk are 
 born, there let them bide. Glory to God, I was never 
 far'er from here than Crossmichael." 
 
 In the meantime it began to strike Archie as strange, 
 that while she thus sang the praises of her kinsfolk, and 
 manifestly relished their virtues and (I may say) their 
 vices like a thing creditable to herself, there should ap- 
 pear not the least sign of cordiality between the house 
 of Hermiston and that of Cauldstaneslap. Going to 
 church of a Sunday, as the lady housekeeper stepped 
 with her skirts kilted, three tucks of her white petticoat 
 showing below, and her best India shawl upon her 
 back (if the day were fine) in a pattern of radiant dyes, 
 she would sometimes overtake her relatives preceding 
 her more leisurely in the same direction. Gib of course 
 was absent: by skriegh of day he had been gone to 
 Crossmichael and his fellow heretics; but the rest of the 
 family would be seen marching in open order: Hob and 
 Dand, stiff-necked, straight-backed six-footers, with se- 
 vere dark faces, and their plaids about their shoulders; 
 the convoy of children scattering (in a state of high pol- 
 
 8i 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 ish) on the wayside, and every now and again collected 
 by the shrill summons of the mother; and the mother 
 herself, by a suggestive circumstance which might have 
 afforded matter of thought to a more experienced ob- 
 server than Archie, wrapped in a shawl nearly identical 
 with Kirstie's but a thought more gaudy and conspicu- 
 ously newer. At the sight, Kirstie grew more tall — 
 Kirstie showed her classical profile, nose in air and nos- 
 tril spread, the pure blood came in her cheek evenly in 
 a delicate living pink. 
 
 "A braw day to ye, Mistress Elliott," said she, and 
 hostility and gentility were nicely mingled in her tones. 
 **A fine day, mem," the laird's wife would reply with 
 a miraculous curtsey, spreading the while her plumage 
 — setting off, in other words, and with arts unknown 
 to the mere man, the pattern of her India shawl. Be- 
 hind her, the whole Cauldstaneslap contingent marched 
 in closer order, and with an indescribable air of being 
 in the presence of the foe; and while Dandie saluted 
 his aunt with a certain familiarity as of one who was 
 well in court, Hob marched on in awful immobility. 
 There appeared upon the face of this attitude in the 
 family the consequences of some dreadful feud. Pre- 
 sumably the two women had been principals in the 
 original encounter, and the laird had probably been 
 drawn into the quarrel by the ears, too late to be in- 
 cluded in the present skin-deep reconciliation. 
 
 *' Kirstie," said Archie one day, "what is this you 
 have against your family ? " 
 
 " I dinna complean," said Kirstie, with a flush. " I 
 say naething." 
 
 83 
 
WINTER ON THE MOORS 
 
 *' I see you do not — not even good day to your own 
 nephew," said he. 
 
 ''I hae naething to be ashamed of," said she. '*I 
 can say the Lord's prayer with a good grace. If Hob 
 was ill, or in preeson or poverty, I would see to him 
 blithely. But for curtchying and complimenting and 
 colloguing, thank ye kindly!" 
 
 Archie had a bit of a smile : he leaned back in his chair. 
 '' I think you and Mrs. Robert are not very good friends," 
 says he slyly, " when you have your India shawls on ?" 
 
 She looked upon him in silence, with a sparkling eye 
 but an indecipherable expression ; and that 'was all that 
 Archie was ever destined to learn of the battle of the 
 India shawls. 
 
 "Do none of them ever come here to see you?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 **Mr. Archie," said she, **I hope that I ken my 
 place better. It would be a queer thing, I think, if I 
 was to clamjamfry up your faither's house . . . that I 
 should say it! — wi' a dirty, black-a-vised clan, no ane 
 o' them it was worth while to mar soap upon but just 
 mysel' ! Na, they're all damnifeed wi' the black EUwalds. 
 I have nae patience wi' black folk." Then, with a sud- 
 den consciousness of the case of Archie, '*No that it 
 maitters for men sae muckle," she made haste to add, 
 '*but there's naebody can deny that it's unwomanly. 
 Long hair is the ornament o' woman ony way; we've 
 good warrandise for that — it's in the Bible — and wha 
 can doubt that the Apostle had some gowden-haired 
 lassie in his mind — Apostle and all, for what was he 
 but just a man like yersel' ?" 
 
 83 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 Archie was sedulous at church. Sunday after Sun- 
 day he sat down and stood up with that small com- 
 pany, heard the voice of Mr. Torrance leaping like an 
 ill-played cFarionet from key to key, and had an oppor- 
 tunity to study his moth-eaten gown and the black 
 thread mittens that he joined together in prayer, and 
 lifted up with a reverent solemnity in the act of bene- 
 diction. Hermiston pew was a little square box, dwarf- 
 ish in proportion with the kirk itself, and enclosing a 
 table not much bigger than a footstool. There sat Ar- 
 chie an apparent prince, the only undeniable gentleman 
 and the only great heritor in the parish, taking his ease 
 in the only pew, for no other in the kirk had doors. 
 Thence he might command an undisturbed view of that 
 congregation of solid plaided men, strapping wives and 
 daughters, oppressed children, and uneasy sheep-dogs. 
 It was strange how Archie missed the look of race; ex- 
 cept the dogs, with their refined foxy faces and inimita- 
 bly curling tails, there was no one present with the 
 least claim to gentility. The Cauldstaneslap party was 
 scarcely an exception; Dandie perhaps, as he amused 
 himself making verses through the interminable burden 
 of the service, stood out a little by the glow in his eye 
 and a certain superior animation of face and alertness 
 
 84 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 of body ; but even Dandie slouched like a rustic. The 
 rest of the congregation, like so many sheep, oppressed 
 him with a sense of hob-nailed routine, day following 
 day — of physical labour in the open air, oatmeal por- 
 ridge, peas bannock, the somnolent fire-side in the eve- 
 ning, and the night-long nasal slumbers in a box-bed. 
 Yet he knew many of them to be shrewd and humor- 
 ous, men of character, notable women, making a bustle 
 in the world and radiating an influence from their low- 
 browed doors. He knew besides they were like other 
 men; below the crust of custom, rapture found a way; 
 he had heard them beat the timbrel before Bacchus — 
 had heard them shout and carouse over their whisky 
 toddy; and not the most Dutch-bottomed and severe 
 faces among them all, not even the solemn elders them- 
 selves, but were capable of singular gambols at the 
 voice of love. Men drawing near to an end of life's 
 adventurous journey — maids thrilling with fear and 
 curiosity on the threshold of entrance — women who 
 had borne and perhaps buried children, who could re- 
 member the clinging of the small dead hands and the 
 patter of the little feet now silent — he marvelled that 
 among all those faces there should be no face of expec- 
 tation, none that was mobile, none into which the 
 rhythm and poetry of life had entered. "O for a live 
 face," he thought; and at times he had a memory of 
 Lady Flora; and at times he would study the living 
 gallery before him with despair, and would see himself 
 go on to waste his days in that joyless, pastoral place, 
 and death come to him, and his grave be dug under 
 the rowans, and the Spirit of the Earth laugh out in a 
 thunder-peal at the huge fiasco. 
 
 85 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 On this particular Sunday, there was no doubt but 
 that the spring had come at last. It was warm, with a 
 latent shiver in the air that made the warmth only the 
 more welcome. The shallows of the stream glittered 
 and tinkled among bunches of primrose. Vagrant 
 scents of the earth arrested Archie by the way with 
 moments of ethereal intoxication. The grey, Quaker- 
 ish dale was still only awakened in places and patches 
 from the sobriety of its wintry colouring; and he won- 
 dered at its beauty ; an essential beauty of the old earth 
 it seemed to him, not resident in particulars but breath- 
 ing to him from the whole. He surprised himself by a 
 sudden impulse to write poetry — he did so sometimes, 
 loose, galloping octosyllabics in the vein of Scott — and 
 when he had taken his place on a boulder, near some 
 fairy falls and shaded by a whip of a tree that was al- 
 ready radiant with new leaves, it still more surprised 
 him that he should find nothing to write. His heart 
 perhaps beat in time to some vast indwelling rhythm 
 of the universe. By the time he came to a corner of 
 the valley and could see the kirk, he had so lingered by 
 the way that the first psalm was finishing. The nasal 
 psalmody, full of turns and trills and graceless graces, 
 seemed the essential voice of the kirk itself upraised in 
 thanksgiving. "Everything's alive," he said; and 
 again cries it aloud, " Thank God, everything's alive! " 
 He lingered yet awhile in the kirk-yard. A tuft of 
 primroses was blooming hard by the leg of an old, 
 black table tombstone, and he stopped to contemplate 
 the random apologue. They stood forth on the cold 
 earth with a trenchancy of contrast ; and he was struck 
 with a sense of incompleteness in the day, the season, 
 
 86 
 
A LEAK FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 and the beauty that surrounded him — the chill there 
 was in the warmth, the gross black clods about the 
 opening primroses, the damp earthy smell that was 
 everywhere intermingled with the scents. The voice 
 of the aged Torrance within rose in an ecstasy. And 
 he wondered if Torrance also felt in his old bones the 
 joyous influence of the spring morning; Torrance, or 
 the shadow of what once was Torrance, that must come 
 so soon to lie outside here in the sun and rain with all 
 his rheumatisms, while a new minister stood in his 
 room and thundered from his own familiar pulpit ? The 
 pity of it, and something of the chill of the grave, shook 
 him for a moment as he made haste to enter. 
 
 He went up the aisle reverently and took his place in 
 the pew with lowered eyes, for he feared he had already 
 offended the kind old gentleman in the pulpit, and was 
 sedulous to offend no farther. He could not follow the 
 prayer, not even the heads of it. Brightnesses of azure, 
 clouds of fragrance, a tinkle of falling water and singing 
 birds, rose like exhalations from some deeper, aborig- 
 inal memory, that was not his, but belonged to the 
 flesh on his bones. His body remembered; and it 
 seemed to him that his body was in no way gross, but 
 ethereal and perishable like a strain of music; and he 
 felt for it an exquisite tenderness as for a child, an in- 
 nocent, full of beautiful instincts and destined to an 
 early death. And he felt for old Torrance — of the 
 many supplications, of the few days — a pity that was 
 near to tears. The prayer ended. Right over him was 
 a tablet in the wall, the only ornament in the roughly 
 masoned chapel — for it was no more; the tablet com- 
 memorated, I was about to say the virtues, but rather 
 
 87 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 the existence of a former Rutherford of Hermiston; and 
 Archie, under that trophy of his long descent and local 
 greatness, leaned back in the pew and contemplated 
 vacancy with the shadow of a smile between playful 
 and sad, that became him strangely. Dandie's sister, 
 sitting by the side of Clem in her new Glasgow fmery, 
 chose that moment to observe the young laird. Aware 
 of the stir of his entrance, the little formalist had kept 
 her eyes fastened and her face prettily composed dur- 
 ing the prayer. It was not hypocrisy, there was no 
 one farther from a hypocrite. The girl had been taught 
 to behave: to look up, to look down, to look uncon- 
 scious, to look seriously impressed in church, and in 
 every conjuncture to look her best. That was the game 
 of female life, and she played it frankly. Archie was 
 the one person in church who was of interest, who was 
 somebody new, reputed eccentric, known to be young, 
 and a laird, and still unseen by Christina. Small won- 
 der that, as she stood there in her attitude of pretty de- 
 cency, her mind should run upon him! If he spared a 
 glance in her direction, he should know she was a well- 
 behaved young lady who had been to Glasgow. In 
 reason he must admire her clothes, and it was possible 
 that he should think her pretty. At that her heart beat 
 the least thing in the world; and she proceeded, by way 
 of a corrective, to call up and dismiss a series of fancied 
 pictures of the young man who should now, by rights, 
 be looking at her. She settled on the plainest of them, 
 a pink short young man with a dish face and no figure, 
 at whose admiration she could afford to smile; but for 
 all that, the consciousness of his gaze (which was really 
 fixed on Torrance and his mittens) kept her in some- 
 
 88 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 thing of a flutter till the word Amen. Even then, she 
 was far too well-bred to gratify her curiosity with any 
 impatience. She resumed her seat languidly — this was 
 a Glasgow touch — she composed her dress, rearranged 
 her nosegay of primroses, looked first in front, then be- 
 hind upon the other side, and at last allowed her eyes 
 to move, without hurry, in the direction of the Hermis- 
 ton pew. For a moment, they were riveted. Next she 
 had plucked her gaze home again like a tame bird who 
 should have meditated flight. Possibilities crowded on 
 her; she hung over the future and grew dizzy; the 
 image of this young man, slim, graceful, dark, with the 
 inscrutable half-smile, attracted and repelled her like a 
 chasm. "I wonder, will I have met my fate?" she 
 thought, and her heart swelled. 
 
 Torrance was got some way into his first exposition, 
 positing a deep layer of texts as he went along, laying 
 the foundations of his discourse, which was to deal with 
 a nice point in divinity, before Archie suffered his eyes 
 to wander. They fell first of all on Clem, looking in- 
 supportably prosperous and patronizing Torrance with 
 the favour of a modified attention, as of one who was 
 used to better things in Glasgow. Though he had 
 never before set eyes on him, Archie had no difficulty 
 in identifying him, and no hesitation in pronouncing 
 him vulgar, the worst of the family. Clem was leaning 
 lazily forward when Archie first saw him. Presently he 
 leaned nonchalantly back; and that deadly instrument, 
 the maiden, was suddenly unmasked in profile. Though 
 not quite in the front of the fashion (had anybody cared !), 
 certain artful Glasgow mantua-makers, and her own in- 
 herent taste, had arrayed her to great advantage. Her 
 
 89 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 accoutrement was, indeed, a cause of heart-burning, 
 and almost of scandal, in that infinitesimal kirk com- 
 pany. Mrs. Hob had said her say at Cauldstaneslap. 
 " Daft-like! " she had pronounced it. ** A jaiket that'll 
 no meet ! Whaur's the sense of a jaiket that'll no button 
 upon you, if it should come to be weet ? What do ye 
 ca' thir things ? Demmy brokens, d'ye say ? They'll 
 be brokens wi' a vengeance or ye can win back ! Weel, 
 I have naething to do wi' it — it's no good taste." 
 Clem, whose purse had thus metamorphosed his sister, 
 and who was not insensible to the advertisement, had 
 come to the rescue with a " Hoot, woman! What do 
 you ken of good taste that has never been to the ceety?" 
 And Hob, looking on the girl with pleased smiles, as 
 she timidly displayed her finery in the midst of the dark 
 kitchen, had thus ended the dispute: "The cutty looks 
 weel," he had said, *'and it's no very like rain. Wear 
 them the day, hizzie ; but it's no a thing to make a prac- 
 tice o*." In the breasts of her rivals, coming to the kirk 
 very conscious of white under-linen, and their faces 
 splendid with much soap, the sight of the toilet had 
 raised a storm of varying emotion, from the mere un- 
 envious admiration that was expressed in the long-drawn 
 ** Eh! " to the angrier feeling that found vent in an em- 
 phatic " Set her up ! " Her frock was of straw-coloured 
 jaconet muslin, cut low at the bosom and short at the 
 ankle, so as to display her demi-broqutns of Regency 
 violet, crossing with many straps upon a yellow cobweb 
 stocking. According to the pretty fashion in which our 
 grandmothers did not hesitate to appear, and our great- 
 aunts went forth armed for the pursuit and capture of 
 our great-uncles, the dress was drawn up so as to 
 
 90 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 mould the contour of both breasts, and in the nook be- 
 tween a cairngorm brooch maintained it. Here, too, 
 surely in a very enviable position, trembled the nosegay 
 of primroses. She wore on her shoulders — or rather, 
 on her back and not her shoulders, which it scarcely 
 passed — a French coat of sarsenet, tied in front with 
 Margate braces, and of the same colour with her violet 
 shoes. About her face clustered a disorder of dark ring- 
 lets, a little garland of yellow French roses surmounted 
 her brow, and the whole was crowned by a village hat 
 of chipped straw. Amongst all the rosy and all the 
 weathered faces that surrounded her in church, she 
 glowed like an open flower — girl and raiment, and the 
 cairngorm that caught the daylight and returned it in a 
 fiery flash, and the threads of bronze and gold that 
 played in her hair. 
 
 Archie was attracted by the bright thing like a child. 
 He looked at her again and yet again, and their looks 
 crossed. The lip was lifted from her little teeth. He 
 saw the red blood work vividly under her tawny skin. 
 Her eye, which was great as a stag's, struck and held 
 his gaze. He knew who she must be — Kirstie, she of 
 the harsh diminutive, his housekeeper's niece, the sister 
 of the rustic prophet, Gib — and he found in her the 
 answer to his wishes. 
 
 Christina felt the shock of their encountering glances, 
 and seemed to rise, clothed in smiles, into a region of 
 the vague and bright. But the gratification was not 
 more exquisite than it was brief. She looked away 
 abruptly, and immediately began to blame herself for 
 that abruptness. She knew what she should have 
 done, too late — turned slowly with her nose in the air. 
 
 91 
 
WEIR. OF HERMISTON 
 
 And meantime his look was not removed, but contin- 
 ued to play upon her like a battery of cannon con- 
 stantly aimed, and now seemed to isolate her alone with 
 him, and now seemed to uplift her, as on a pillory, be- 
 fore the congregation. For Archie continued to drink 
 her in with his eyes, even as a wayfarer comes to a 
 well-head on a mountain, and stoops his face, and 
 drinks with thirst unassuageable. In the cleft of her 
 little breasts the fiery eye of the topaz and the pale flor- 
 ets of primrose fascinated him. He saw the breasts 
 heave, and the flowers shake with the heaving, and 
 marvelled what should so much discompose the girl. 
 And Christina was conscious of his gaze — saw it, per- 
 haps, with the dainty plaything of an ear that peeped 
 among her ringlets; she was conscious of changing 
 colour, conscious of her unsteady breath. Like a crea- 
 ture tracked, run down, surrounded, she sought in a 
 dozen ways to give herself a countenance. She used 
 her handkerchief — it was a really fine one — then she 
 desisted in a panic: "He would only think I was too 
 warm." She took to reading in the metrical psalms, 
 and then remembered it was sermon-time. Last she 
 put a " sugar-bool " in her mouth, and the next moment 
 repented of the step. It was such a homely-like thing! 
 Mr. Archie would never be eating sweeties in kirk; and, 
 with a palpable effort, she swallowed it whole, and her 
 color flamed high. At this signal of distress Archie 
 awoke to a sense of his ill-behaviour. What had he been 
 doing? He had been exquisitely rude in church to the 
 niece of his housekeeper; he had stared like a lackey and 
 a libertine at a beautiful and modest girl. It was possible, 
 it was even likely, he would be presented to her after 
 
 9a 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 service in the kirk-yard, and then how was he to look » 
 And there was no excuse. He had marked the tokens 
 of her shame, of her increasing indignation, and he was 
 such a fool that he had not understood them. Shame 
 bowed him down, and he looked resolutely at Mr. Tor- 
 rance; who little supposed, good, worthy man, as he 
 continued to expound justification by faith, what was 
 his true business : to play the part of derivative to a pair 
 of children at the old game of falling in love. 
 
 Christina was greatly relieved at first. It seemed to 
 her that she was clothed again. She looked back on 
 what had passed. All would have been right if she 
 had not blushed, a silly fool! There was nothing to 
 blush at, if she had taken a sugar-bool. Mrs. MacTag- 
 gart, the elder's wife in St. Enoch's, took them often. 
 And if he had looked at her, what was more natural 
 than that a young gentleman should look at the best- 
 dressed girl in church ? And at the same time, she 
 knew far otherwise, she knew there was nothing cas- 
 ual or ordinary in the look, and valued herself on its 
 memory like a decoration. Well, it was a blessing he 
 had found something else to look at! And presently 
 she began to have other thoughts. It was necessary, 
 she fancied, that she should put herself right by a rep- 
 etition of the incident, better managed. If the wish 
 was father to the thought, she did not know or she 
 would not recognise it. It was simply as a manoeuvre 
 of propriety, as something called for to lessen the sig- 
 nificance of what had gone before, that she should a 
 second time meet his eyes, and this time without blush- 
 ing. And at the memory of the blush, she blushed 
 again, and became one general blush burning from head 
 
 95 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 to foot. Was ever anything so indelicate, so forward, 
 done by a girl before ? And here she was, making an 
 exhibition of herself before the congregation about noth- 
 ing! She stole a glance upon her neighbours, and be- 
 hold! they were steadily indifferent, and Clem had gone 
 to sleep. And still the one idea was becoming more 
 and more potent with her, that in common prudence 
 she must look again before the service ended. Some- 
 thing of the same sort was going forward in the mind 
 of Archie, as he struggled with the load of penitence. 
 So it chanced that, in the flutter of the moment when 
 the last psalm was given out, and Torrance was reading 
 the verse, and the leaves of every psalm-book in church 
 were rustling under busy fingers, two stealthy glances 
 were sent out like antennae among the pews and on the 
 indifferent and absorbed occupants, and drew timidly 
 nearer to the straight line between Archie and Christina. 
 They met, they lingered together for the least fraction 
 of time, and that was enough. A charge as of electric- 
 ity passed through Christina, and behold! the leaf of her 
 psalm-book was torn across. 
 
 Archie was outside by the gate of the graveyard, con- 
 versing with Hob and the minister and shaking hands 
 all round with the scattering congregation, when Clem 
 and Christina were brought up to be presented. The 
 laird took off his hat and bowed to her with grace and 
 respect. Christina made her Glasgow curtsey to the 
 laird, and went on again up the road for Hermiston and 
 Cauldstaneslap, walking fast, breathing hurriedly with 
 a heightened colour, and in this strange frame of mind, 
 that when she was alone she seemed in high happiness, 
 and when anyone addressed her she resented it like a 
 
 94 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 contradiction. A part of the way she had the company 
 of some neighbour girls and a loutish young man ; never 
 had they seemed so insipid, never had she made herself 
 so disagreeable. But these struck aside to their various 
 destinations or were out-walked and left behind; and 
 when she had driven off with sharp words the proffered 
 convoy of some of her nephews and nieces, she was 
 free to go on alone up Hermiston brae, walking on air, 
 dwelling intoxicated among clouds of happiness. Near 
 to the summit she heard steps behind her, a man's steps, 
 light and very rapid. She knew the foot at once and 
 walked the faster. " If it's me he's wanting he can run 
 for it," she thought, smiling. 
 
 Archie overtook her like a man whose mind was 
 made up. 
 
 "Miss Kirstie," he began. 
 
 "Miss Christina, if you please, Mr. Weir," she inter- 
 rupted. " I canna bear the contraction." 
 
 "You forget it has a friendly sound for me. Your 
 aunt is an old friend of mine and a very good one. I 
 hope we shall see much of you at Hermiston ?" 
 
 "My aunt and my sister-in-law doesna agree very 
 well. Not that I have much ado with it. But still 
 when I'm stopping in the house, if I was to be visiting 
 my aunt, it would not look considerate-like." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Archie. 
 
 "I thank you kindly, Mr. Weir," she said. "I 
 whiles think myself it's a great peety." 
 
 "Ah, I am sure your voice would always be for 
 peace!" he cried. 
 
 "I wouldna be too sure of that," she said. "I have 
 my days like other folk, I suppose." 
 
 95 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 "Do you know, in our old kirk, among our good 
 old grey dames, you made an effect like sunshine." 
 
 "Ah, but that would be my Glasgow clothes! " 
 
 "I did not think I was so much under the influence 
 of pretty frocks." 
 
 She smiled with a half look at him. "There's more 
 than you!" she said. "But you see I'm only Cinde- 
 rella. I'll have to put all these things by in my trunk; 
 next Sunday I'll be as grey as the rest. They're Glas- 
 gow clothes, you see, and it would never do to make a 
 practice of it. It would seem terrible conspicuous." 
 
 By that they were come to the place where their 
 ways severed. The old grey moors were all about 
 them; in the midst a few sheep wandered; and they 
 could see on the one hand the straggling caravan scal- 
 ing the braes in front of them for Cauldstaneslap, and 
 on the other, the contingent from Hermiston bending 
 off and beginning to disappear by detachments into the 
 policy gate. It was in these circumstances that they 
 turned to say farewell, and deliberately exchanged a 
 glance as they shook hands. All passed as it should, 
 genteelly; and in Christina's mind, as she mounted the 
 first steep ascent for Cauldstaneslap, a gratifying sense 
 of triumph prevailed over the recollection of minor lapses 
 and mistakes. She had kilted her gown, as she did 
 usually at that rugged pass; but when she spied Archie 
 still standing and gazing after her, the skirts came down 
 again as if by enchantment. Here was a piece of nicety 
 for that upland parish, where the matrons marched with 
 their coats kilted in the rain, and the lasses walked bare- 
 foot to kirk through the dust of summer, and went 
 bravely down by the burnside, and sat on stones to 
 
 96 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 make a public toilet before entering! It was perhaps an 
 air wafted from Glasgow ; or perhaps it marked a stage 
 of that dizziness of gratified vanity, in which the in- 
 stinctive act passed unperceived. He was looking after! 
 She unloaded her bosom of a prodigious sigh that was 
 all pleasure, and betook herself to run. When she had 
 overtaken the stragglers of her family, she caught up 
 the niece whom she had so recently repulsed, and kissed 
 and slapped her, and drove her away again, and ran 
 after her with pretty cries and laughter. Perhaps she 
 thought the laird might still be looking! But it chanced 
 the little scene came under the view of eyes less favour- 
 able; for she overtook Mrs. Hob marching with Clem 
 and Dand. 
 
 " You're shurely fey,^ lass! " quoth Dandie. 
 
 " Think shame to yersel', miss ! " said the strident Mrs. 
 Hob. " Is this the gait to guide yersel' on the way hame 
 frae kirk ? You're shurely no sponsible the day. And 
 anyway I would mind my guid claes." 
 
 "Hoot!" said Christina, and went on before them 
 head in air, treading the rough track with the tread of a 
 wild doe. 
 
 She was in love with herself, her destiny, the air of 
 the hills, the benediction of the sun. All the way home, 
 she continued under the intoxication of these sky-scrap- 
 ing spirits. At table she could talk freely of young Hermis- 
 ton; gave her opinion of him off-hand and with a loud 
 voice, that he was a handsome young gentleman, real 
 well-mannered and sensible-like, but it was a pity he 
 looked doleful. Only — the moment after — a memory 
 
 1 Unlike yourself, strange, as persons are observed to be in the hour 
 of approaching death or calamity, 
 
 97 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 0/ his eyes in church embarrassed her. But for this in- 
 considerable check, all through meal-time she had a good 
 appetite, and she kept them laughing at table, until Gib 
 (who had returned before them from Crossmichael and 
 his separative worship) reproved the whole of them for 
 their levity. 
 
 Singing *Mn to herself" as she went, her mind still 
 in the turmoil of glad confusion, she rose and tripped 
 upstairs to a little loft, lighted by four panes in the gable, 
 where she slept with one of her nieces. The niece, who 
 followed her, presuming on ''Auntie's" high spirits, 
 was flounced out of the apartment with small ceremony, 
 and retired, smarting and half-tearful, to bury her woes 
 in the byre among the hay. Still humming, Christina 
 divested herself of her fmery, and put her treasures one by 
 one in her great green trunk. The last of these was the 
 psalm-book ; it was a fine piece, the gift of Mistress Clem, 
 in distinct old-faced type, on paper that had begun to 
 grow foxy in the warehouse — not by service — and she 
 was used to wrap it in a handkerchief every Sunday 
 after its period of service was over, and bury it end-wise 
 at the head of her trunk. As she now took it in hand 
 the book fell open where the leaf was torn, and she stood 
 and gazed upon that evidence of her by-gone discom- 
 posure. There returned again the vision of the two 
 brown eyes staring at her, intent and bright, out of that 
 dark corner of the kirk. The whole appearance and 
 attitude, the smile, the suggested gesture of young Her- 
 miston came before her in a flash at the sight of the torn 
 page. ** I was surely fey ! " she said, echoing the words 
 of Dandie, and at the suggested doom her high spirits 
 deserted her. She flung herself prone upon the bed, 
 
 98 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 and lay there, holding the psalm-book in her hands for 
 hours, for the more part in a mere stupor of unconsent- 
 ing pleasure and unreasoning fear. The fear was super- 
 stitious; there came up again and again in her memory 
 Dandie's ill-omened words, and a hundred grisly and 
 black tales out of the immediate neighbourhood read her 
 a commentary on their force. The pleasure was never 
 realized. You might say the joints of her body thought 
 and remembered, and were gladdened, but her essential 
 self, in th« immediate theatre of consciousness, talked 
 feverishly of something else, like a nervous person at a 
 fire. The image that she most complacently dwelt on was 
 that of Miss Christina in her character of the Fair Lass 
 of Cauldstaneslap, carrying all before her in the straw- 
 coloured frock, the violet mantle, and the yellow cobweb 
 stockings. Archie's image, on the other hand, when it 
 presented itself was never welcomed — far less wel- 
 comed with any ardour, and it was exposed at times to 
 merciless criticism. In the long, vague dialogues she 
 held in her mind, often with imaginary, often with un- 
 realised interlocutors, Archie, if he were referred to at all, 
 came in for savage handling. He was described as 
 ** looking like a stork," ''staring like a caulf," "a face 
 like a ghaist's." "Do you call that manners?" she 
 said; or, "I soon put him in his place." '' 'Mhs Chris- 
 tina, if you please, Mr. Weir ! ' says I, and just flyped 
 up my skirt tails." With gabble like this she would 
 entertain herself long whiles together, and then her eye 
 would perhaps fall on the torn leaf, and the eyes of Ar- 
 chie would appear again from the darkness of the wall, 
 and the voluble words deserted her, and she would lie 
 still and stupid, and think upon nothing with devotion, 
 
 99 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 and be sometimes raised by a quiet sigh. Had a doctor 
 of medicine come into that loft, he would have diagnosed 
 a healthy, well-developed, eminently vivacious lass ly- 
 ing on her face in a fit of the sulks; not one who had 
 just contracted, or was just contracting, a mortal sick- 
 ness of the mind which should yet carry her towards 
 death and despair. Had it been a doctor of psychology, 
 he might have been pardoned for divining in the girl a 
 passion of childish vanity, self-love in excelsis, and no 
 more. It is to be understood that I have been painting 
 chaos and describing the inarticulate. Every lineament 
 that appears is too precise, almost every word used too 
 strong. Take a fmger-post in the mountains on a day 
 of rolling mists; I have but copied the names that appear 
 upon the pointers, the names of definite and famous 
 cities far distant, and now perhaps basking in sunshine; 
 but Christina remained all these hours, as it were, at the 
 foot of the post itself, not moving, and enveloped in 
 mutable and blinding wreaths of haze. 
 
 The day was growing late and the sunbeams long 
 and level, when she sat suddenly up, and wrapped in 
 its handkerchief and put by that psalm-book which had 
 already played a part so decisive in the first chapter of 
 her love-story. In the absence of the mesmerist's eye, 
 we are told nowadays that the head of a bright nail may 
 fill his place, if it be steadfastly regarded. So that torn 
 page had riveted her attention on what might else have 
 been but little, and perhaps soon forgotten ; while the 
 ominous words of Dandie — heard, not heeded, and 
 still remembered — had lent to her thoughts, or rather 
 to her mood, a cast of solemnity, and that idea of Fate — 
 a pagan Fate, uncontrolled by any Christian deity, ob- 
 
 lOO 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 scure, lawless, and august — moving indissuadably in 
 the affairs of Christian men. Thus even that phenom- 
 enon of love at first sight, which is so rare and seems 
 so simple and violent, like a disruption of life's tissue, 
 may be decomposed into a sequence of accidents hap- 
 pily concurring. 
 
 She put on a grey frock and a pink kerchief, looked 
 at herself a moment with approval in the small square 
 of glass that served her for a toilet mirror, and went 
 softly down-stairs through the sleeping house that re- 
 sounded with the sound of afternoon snoring. Just 
 outside the door Dandle was sitting with a book in his 
 hand, not reading, only honouring the Sabbath by a sa- 
 cred vacancy of mind. She came near him and stood 
 still. 
 
 *M 'm for off up the muirs, Dandie," she said. 
 
 There was something unusually soft in her tones that 
 made him look up. She was pale, her eyes dark and 
 bright; no trace remained of the levity of the morning. 
 
 *'Ay, lass? Ye'll have ye're ups and downs like 
 me, I'm thinkin'," he observed. 
 
 *' What for do ye say that ? " she asked. 
 
 " O, for naething," says Dand. " Only I think ye're 
 mair like me than the lave of them. Ye've mair of the 
 poetic temper, tho' Guid kens little enough of the poetic 
 taalent. It's an ill gift at the best. Look at yoursel'. 
 At denner you were all sunshine and flowers and laugh- 
 ter, and now you 're like the star of evening on a lake." 
 
 She drank in this hackneyed compliment like wine, 
 and it glowed in her veins. 
 
 "But I'm saying, Dand" — she came nearer him — 
 "Vm for the muirs. I must have a braith of air. If 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 Clem was to be speiring for me, try and quaiet him, will 
 ye no?" 
 
 '*What way?" said Dandie. '*l ken but the ae 
 way, and that's leein'. I'll say ye had a sair heed, if 
 ye like." 
 
 ** But 1 havena," she objected. 
 
 *' I daur say not," he returned. ** I said I would say 
 ye had; and if ye like to nay-say me when ye come 
 back, it'll no mateerially maitter, for my chara'ter's 
 clean gane a'ready past reca'." 
 
 "O, Dand, are ye a leear?" she asked, lingering. 
 
 ** Folks say sae," replied the bard. 
 
 " Wha says sae ?" she pursued. 
 
 "Them that should ken the best," he responded. 
 "The lassies, for ane." 
 
 " But, Dand, you would never lee to me ? " she asked. 
 
 "I'll leave that for your pairt of it, ye girzie," said 
 he. " Ye'll lee to me fast eneuch, when ye hae got- 
 ten a jo. I'm tellin' ye and it's true; when you have 
 a jo. Miss Kirstie, it'll be for guid and ill. I ken : I was 
 made that way mysel', but the deil was in my luck! 
 Here, gang awa wi' ye to your muirs, and let me be; 
 I'm in an hour of inspiraution, ye upsetting tawpie!" 
 
 But she clung to her brother's neighbourhood, she 
 knew not why. 
 
 " Will ye no gie's a kiss, Dand ?" she said. " I aye 
 likit ye fine." 
 
 He kissed her and considered her a moment; he 
 found something strange in her. But he was a liber- 
 tine through and through, nourished equal contempt 
 and suspicion of all womankind, and paid his way 
 among them habitually with idle compliments. 
 
 103 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 " Gae wa' wi' ye! " said he. " Ye're a dentie baby, 
 and be content wi' that! " 
 
 That was Dandie's way; a kiss and a comfit to Jenny 
 — a bawbee and my blessing to Jill — and good night 
 to the whole clan of ye, my dears ! When anything 
 approached the serious, it became a matter for men, he 
 both thought and said. Women, when they did not 
 absorb, were only children to be shoo'd away. Merely 
 in his character of connoisseur, however, Dandie glanced 
 carelessly after his sister as she crossed the meadow. 
 '*The brat's no that bad!" he thought with surprise, 
 for though he had just been paying her compliments, 
 he had not really looked at her. *' Hey ! what's yon ? " 
 For the grey dress was cut with short sleeves and skirts, 
 and displayed her trim strong legs clad in pink stock- 
 ings of the same shade as the kerchief she wore round 
 her shoulders, and that shimmered as she went. This 
 was not her way in undress; he knew her ways and 
 the ways of the whole sex in the country-side, no one 
 better; when they did not go barefoot, they wore stout 
 *'rig and furrow" woollen hose of an invisible blue 
 mostly, when they were not black outright; and Dan- 
 die, at sight of this daintiness, put two and two to- 
 gether. It was a silk handkerchief, then they would be 
 silken hose; they matched — then the whole outfit was 
 a present of Clem's, a costly present, and not something 
 to be worn through bog and briar, or on a late afternoon 
 of Sunday. He whistled. ''My denty May, either 
 your heid's fair turned, or there's some on-goings ! " he 
 observed, and dismissed the subject. 
 
 She went slowly at first, but ever straighter and faster 
 for the Cauldstaneslap, a pass among the hills to which 
 
 103 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 the farm owed its name. The Slap opened like a door- 
 way between two rounded hillocks; and through this 
 ran the short cut to Hermiston. Immediately on the 
 other side it went down through the Deil's Hags, a con- 
 siderable marshy hollow of the hill-tops, full of springs, 
 and crouching junipers, and pools where the black peat- 
 water slumbered. There was no view from here. A 
 man might have sat upon the Praying Weaver's stone a 
 half-century, and seen none but the Cauldstaneslap 
 children twice in the twenty-four hours on their way to 
 the school and back again, an occasional shepherd, the 
 irruption of a clan of sheep, or the birds who haunted 
 about the springs, drinking and shrilly piping. So, 
 when she had once passed the Slap, Kirstie was re- 
 ceived into seclusion. She looked back a last time at 
 the farm. It still lay deserted except for the figure of 
 Dandie, who was now seen to be scribbling in his lap, 
 the hour of expected inspiration having come to him at 
 last. Thence she passed rapidly through the morass, 
 and came to the further end of it, where a sluggish burn 
 discharges, and the path for Hermiston accompanies it 
 on the beginning of its downward path. From this 
 corner a wide view was opened to her of the whole 
 stretch of braes upon the other side, still sallow and in 
 places rusty with the winter, with the path marked 
 boldly, here and there by the burnside a tuft of birches, 
 and — three miles off as the crow flies — from its en- 
 closures, and young plantations, the windows of Her- 
 miston glittering in the western sun. 
 
 Here she sat down and waited, and looked for a long 
 time at these far-away bright panes of glass. It amused 
 her to have so extended a view, she thought. It amused 
 
 104 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 her to see the house of Hermiston — to see " folk "; and 
 there was an indistinguishable human unit, perhaps the 
 gardener, visibly sauntering on the gravel paths. 
 
 By the time the sun was down and all the easterly 
 braes lay plunged in clear shadow, she was aware of 
 another figure coming up the path at a most unequal 
 rate of approach, now half-running, now pausing and 
 seeming to hesitate. She watched him at first with a 
 total suspension of thought. She held her thought as a 
 person holds his breathing. Then she consented to 
 recognize him. "He'll no be coming here, he canna 
 be; it's no possible." And there began to grow upon 
 her a subdued choking suspense. He was coming; his 
 hesitations had quite ceased, his step grew firm and 
 swift; no doubt remained; and the question loomed up 
 before her instant : what was she to do ? It was all 
 very well to say that her brother was a laird himself; it 
 was all very well to speak of casual intermarriages and 
 to count cousinship, like Auntie Kirstie. The difference 
 in their social station was trenchant; propriety, pru- 
 dence, all that she had ever learned, all that she knew, 
 bade her flee. But on the other hand the cup of life 
 now offered to her was too enchanting. For one mo- 
 ment, she saw the question clearly, and definitely made 
 her choice. She stood up and showed herself an in- 
 stant in the gap relieved upon the sky line; and the 
 next, fled trembling and sat down glowing with excite- 
 ment on the Weaver's stone. She shut her eyes, seek- 
 ing, praying for composure. Her hand shook in her 
 lap, and her mind was full of incongruous and futile 
 speeches. What was there to make a work about r* 
 She could take care of herself, she supposed! There 
 
 105 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 was no harm in seeing the laird. It was the best thing 
 that could happen. She would mark a proper distance 
 to him once and for all. Gradually the wheels of her 
 nature ceased to go round so madly, and she sat in pas- 
 sive expectation, a quiet, solitary figure in the midst of 
 the grey moss. I have said she was no hypocrite, but 
 here I am at fault. She never admitted to herself that 
 she had come up the hill to look for Archie. And per- 
 haps after all she did not know, perhaps came as a stone 
 falls. For the steps of love in the young, and especially 
 in girls, are instinctive and unconscious. 
 
 In the meantime Archie was drawing rapidly near, 
 and he at least was consciously seeking her neighbour- 
 hood. The afternoon had turned to ashes in his mouth ; 
 the memory of the girl had kept him from reading and 
 drawn him as with cords; and at last, as the cool of 
 the evening began to come on, he had taken his hat and 
 set forth, with a smothered ejaculation, by the moor 
 path to Cauldstaneslap. He had no hope to find her; he 
 took the offchance without expectation of result and to 
 relieve his uneasiness. The greater was his surprise, as 
 he surmounted the slope and came into the hollow of 
 the Deil's Hags, to see there, like an answer to his 
 wishes, the little womanly figure in the grey dress and 
 the pink kerchief sitting little, and low, and lost, and 
 acutely solitary, in these desolate surroundings and on 
 the weather-beaten stone of the dead weaver. Those 
 things that still smacked of winter were all rusty about 
 her, and those things that already relished of the spring 
 had put forth the tender and lively colours of the season. 
 Even in the unchanging face of the death-stone changes 
 were to be remarked; and in the channeled-lettering, 
 
 io6 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 the moss began to renew itself in jewels of green. By 
 an after-thought that was a stroke of art, she had turned 
 up over her head the back of the kerchief; so that it now 
 framed becomingly her vivacious and yet pensive face. 
 Her feet were gathered under her on the one side, and 
 she leaned on her bare arm, which showed out strong 
 and round, tapered to a slim wrist, and shimmered in 
 the fading light. 
 
 Young Hermiston was struck with a certain chill. He 
 was reminded that he now dealt in serious matters of 
 life and death. This was a grown woman he was ap- 
 proaching, endowed with her mysterious potencies and 
 attractions, the treasury of the continued race, and he 
 was neither better nor worse than the average of his sex 
 and age. He had a certain delicacy which had preserved 
 him hitherto unspotted, and which (had either of them 
 guessed it) made him a more dangerous companion 
 when his heart should be really stirred. His throat was 
 dry as he came near ; but the appealing sweetness of her 
 smile stood between them like a guardian angel. 
 
 For she turned to him and smiled, though without 
 rising. There was a shade in this cavalier greeting that 
 neither of them perceived; neither he, who simply 
 thought it gracious and charming as herself; nor yet she, 
 who did not observe (quick as she was) the difference 
 between rising to meet the laird and remaining seated 
 to receive the expected admirer. 
 
 "Are ye stepping west, Hermiston.?" said she, giv- 
 ing him his territorial name after the fashion of the coun- 
 try-side. 
 
 *'I was," said he a little hoarsely, **but I think I will 
 be about the end of my stroll now. Are you like me, 
 
 107 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 Miss Christina ? the house would not hold me. I came 
 here seeking air." 
 
 He took his seat at the other end of the tombstone 
 and studied her, wondering what was she. There was 
 infinite import in the question alike for her and him. 
 
 "Ay," she said. "I couldna bear the roof either. 
 It's a habit of mine to come up here about the gloaming 
 when it's quaiet and caller." 
 
 ** It was a habit of my mother's also," he said gravely. 
 The recollection half-startled him as he expressed it. 
 He looked around. " I have scarce been here since. It's 
 peaceful," he said, with a long breath. 
 
 *Mt's no like Glasgow," she replied. "A weary 
 place, yon Glasgow! But what a day have I had for 
 my hame-coming, and what a bonny evening! " 
 
 ** Indeed, it was a wonderful day," said Archie. " I 
 think I will remember it years and years until I come to 
 die. On days like this — I do not know if you feel as I 
 do — but everything appears so brief, and fragile, and 
 exquisite, that I am afraid to touch life. We are here 
 for so short a time; and all the old people before us — 
 Rutherfords of Hermiston, Elliotts of the Cauldstaneslap 
 — that were here but a while since, riding about and 
 keeping up a great noise in this quiet corner — making 
 love too, and marrying — why, where are they now.^ 
 It's deadly commonplace, but after all, the common- 
 places are the great poetic truths." 
 
 He was sounding her, semi-consciously, to see if she 
 could understand him; to learn if she were only an ani- 
 mal the colour of flowers, or had a soul in her to keep 
 her sweet. She, on her part, her means well in hand, 
 watched, womanlike, for any opportunity to shine, to 
 
 108 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 abound in his humour, whatever that might be. The 
 dramatic artist, that lies dormant or only half-awake in 
 most human beings, had in her sprung to his feet in a 
 divine fury, and chance had served her well. She 
 looked upon him with a subdued twilight look that be- 
 came the hour of the day and the train of thought ; earn- 
 estness shone through her like stars in the purple west; 
 and from the great but controlled upheaval of her whole 
 nature there passed into her voice, and rang in her 
 lightest words, a thrill of emotion. 
 
 ''Have you mind of Dand's song.?" she answered. 
 **I think he'll have been trying to say what you have 
 been thinking." 
 
 ''No, I never heard it," he said, " Repeat it to me, 
 can you.^" 
 
 "It's nothing wanting the tune," said Kirstie. 
 
 "Then sing it me," said he. 
 
 "On the Lord's Day? That would never do, Mr. 
 Weir!" 
 
 "1 am afraid I am not so strict a keeper of the Sab- 
 bath, and there is no one in this place to hear us, un- 
 less the poor old ancient under the stone." 
 
 "No that I'm thinking that really," she said. " By 
 my way of thinking, it's just as serious as a psalm. 
 Will I sooth it to ye, then ?" 
 
 "If you please," said he, and, drawing near to her 
 on the tombstone, prepared to listen. 
 
 She sat up as if to sing. "I'll only can sooth it to 
 ye," she explained. "I wouldna like to sing out loud 
 on the Sabbath. I think the birds would carry news 
 of it to Gilbert," and she smiled. "It's about the El- 
 liotts," she continued, "and I think there's few bonnier 
 
 109 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 bits in the book-poets, though Dand has never got 
 printed yet." 
 
 And she began, in the low, clear tones of her half- 
 voice, now sinking almost to a whisper, now rising to 
 a particular note which was her best, and which Archie 
 learned to wait for with growing emotion : — 
 
 O they rade in the rain, in the days that are gane, 
 
 In the rain and the wind and the lave, 
 They shoutit in the ha' and they routit on the hill, 
 
 But they're a' quaitit noo in the grave. 
 Auld, auld Elliotts, clay-cauld Elliotts, dour, bauld Elliotts of auld! 
 
 All the time she sang she looked steadfastly before 
 her, her knees straight, her hands upon her knee, her 
 head cast back and up. The expression was admirable 
 throughout, for had she not learned it from the lips and 
 under the criticism of the author ? When it was done, 
 she turned upon Archie a face softly bright, and eyes 
 gently suffused and shining in the twilight, and his 
 heart rose and went out to her with boundless pity and 
 sympathy. His question was answered. She was a 
 human being tuned to a sense of the tragedy of life; 
 there were pathos and music and a great heart in the 
 girl. 
 
 He arose instinctively, she also; for she saw she had 
 gained a point, and scored the impression deeper, and 
 she had wit enough left to flee upon a victory. They 
 were but commonplaces that remained to be exchanged, 
 but the low, moved voices in which they passed made 
 them sacred in the memory. In the falling greyness of 
 the evening he watched her figure winding through 
 
 no 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 the morass, saw it turn a last time and wave a hand, 
 and then pass through the Slap ; and it seemed to him 
 as if something went along with her out of the deepest 
 of his heart. And something surely had come, and come 
 to dwell there. He had retained from childhood a pic- 
 ture, now half-obliterated by the passage of time and the 
 multitude of fresh impressions, of his mother telling him, 
 with the fluttered earnestness of her voice, and often with 
 dropping tears, the tale of the ** Praying Weaver," on 
 the very scene of his brief tragedy and long repose. And 
 now there was a companion piece; and he beheld, and 
 he should behold forever, Christina perched on the same 
 tomb, in the grey colours of the evening, gracious, 
 dainty, perfect as a flower, and she also singing — 
 
 Of old, unhappy far-off things, 
 And battles long ago, 
 
 — of their common ancestors now dead, of their rude 
 wars composed, their weapons buried with them, and 
 of these strange changelings, their descendants, who 
 lingered a little in their places, and would soon be gone 
 also, and perhaps sung of by others at the gloaming 
 hour. By one of the unconscious arts of tenderness 
 the two women were enshrined together in his mem- 
 ory. Tears, in that hour of sensibility, came into his 
 eyes indifferently at the thought of either, and the girl, 
 from being something merely bright and shapely, was 
 caught up into the zone of things serious as life and 
 death and his dead mother. So that in all ways and on 
 either side. Fate played his game artfully with this poor 
 pair of children. The generations were prepared, the 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 pangs were made ready, before the curtain rose on the 
 dark drama. 
 
 In the same moment of time that she disappeared 
 from Archie, there opened before Kirstie's eyes the cup- 
 like hollow in which the farm lay. She saw, some five 
 hundred feet below her, the house making itself bright 
 with candles, and this was a broad hint to her to hurry. 
 For they were only kindled on a Sabbath night with a 
 view to that family worship which rounded in the in- 
 comparable tedium of the day and brought on the re- 
 laxation of supper. Already she knew that Robert 
 must be within-sides at the head of the table, " waling 
 the portions;" for it was Robert in his quality of fam- 
 ily priest and judge, not the gifted Gilbert, who offici- 
 ated. She made good time accordingly down the steep 
 ascent, and came up to the door panting as the three 
 younger brothers, all roused at last from slumber, stood 
 together in the cool and the dark of the evening with a 
 fry of nephews and nieces about them, chatting and 
 awaiting the expected signal. She stood back; she 
 had no mind to direct attention to her late arrival or to 
 her labouring breath. 
 
 ** Kirstie, ye have shaved it this time, my lass," said 
 Clem. ** Whaur were ye?" 
 
 ** O, just taking a dander by mysel'," said Kirstie. 
 
 And the talk continued on the subject of the Ameri- 
 can war, without further reference to the truant who 
 stood by them in the covert of the dusk, thrilling with 
 happiness and the sense of guilt. 
 
 The signal was given, and the brothers began to go 
 in one after another, amid the jostle and throng of Hob's 
 children. 
 
 112 
 
A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA'S PSALM-BOOK 
 
 Only Dandie, waiting till the last, caught Kirstie by 
 the arm. ** When did ye begin to dander in pink 
 hosen, Mistress Elliott?" he whispered slyly. 
 
 She looked down; she was one blush. 'M maun 
 have forgotten to change them," said she; and went in 
 to prayers in her turn with a troubled mind, between 
 anxiety as to whether Dand should have observed her 
 yellow stockings at church, and should thus detect her 
 in a palpable falsehood, and shame that she had already 
 made good his prophecy. 
 
 She remembered the words of it, how it was to be 
 when she had gotten a jo, and that that would be for 
 good and evil. '* Will I have gotten my jo now ? " she 
 thought with a secret rapture. 
 
 And all through prayers, where it was her principal 
 business to conceal the pink stockings from the eyes of 
 the indifferent Mrs. Hob — and all through supper, as 
 she made a feint of eating, and sat at the table radiant 
 and constrained — and again when she had left them 
 and come into her chamber, and was alone with her 
 sleeping niece, and could at last lay aside the armour of 
 society — the same words sounded within her, the same 
 profound note of happiness, of a world all changed and 
 renewed, of a day that had been passed in Paradise, and 
 of a night that was to be heaven opened. All night 
 she seemed to be conveyed smoothly upon a shallow 
 stream of sleep and waking, and through the bowers of 
 Beulah ; all night she cherished to her heart that exquisite 
 hope; and if, towards morning, she forgot it awhile in 
 a more profound unconsciousness, it was to catch again 
 the rainbow thought with her first moment of awaking. 
 
 "3 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 Two days later a gig from Crossmichael deposited 
 Frank Innes at the doors of Hermiston. Once in a way, 
 during the past winter, Archie, in some acute phase of 
 boredom, had written him a letter. It had contained 
 something in the nature of an invitation, or a reference 
 to an invitation — precisely what, neither of them now 
 remembered. When Innes had received it, there had 
 been nothing further from his mind than to bury him- 
 self in the moors with Archie; but not even the most 
 acute political heads are guided through the steps of life 
 with unerring directness. That would require a gift of 
 prophecy which has been denied to man. For instance, 
 who could have imagined that, not a month after he had 
 received the letter, and turned it into mockery, and put 
 off answering it, and in the end lost it, misfortunes of a 
 gloomy cast should begin to thicken over Frank's 
 career ? His case may be briefly stated. His father, a 
 small Morayshire laird with a large family, became re- 
 calcitrant and cut off the supplies; he had fitted himself 
 out with the beginnings of quite a good law library, 
 which, upon some sudden losses on the turf, he had been 
 obliged to sell before they were paid for; and his book- 
 seller, hearing some rumour of the event, took out a 
 
 114 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 warrant for his arrest. Innes had early word of it, and 
 was able to take precautions. In this immediate wel- 
 ter of his affairs, with an unpleasant charge hanging 
 over him, he had judged it the part of prudence to be 
 off instantly, had written a fervid letter to his father at 
 Inverauld, and put himself in the coach for Crossmichael. 
 Any port in a storm ! He was manfully turning his back 
 on the Parliament House and its gay babble, on porter 
 and oysters, the racecourse and the ring; and manfully 
 prepared, until these clouds should have blown by, to 
 share a living grave with Archie Weir at Hermiston. 
 
 To do him justice, he was no less surprised to be go- 
 ing than Archie was to see him come; and he carried 
 off his wonder with an infinitely better grace. 
 
 "Well, here I am!" said he, as he alighted. *'Py- 
 lades has come to Orestes at last. By the way, did you 
 get my answer? No? How very provoking! Well, 
 here I am to answer for myself, and that's better still." 
 
 *'I am very glad to see you, of course," said Archie. 
 'M make you heartily welcome, of course. But you 
 surely have not come to stay, with the courts still sit- 
 ting; is that not most unwise?" 
 
 **Damn the courts!" says Frank. ''What are the 
 courts to friendship and a little fishing ? " 
 
 And so it was agreed that he was to stay, with no 
 term to the visit but the term which he had privily set 
 to it himself — the day, namely, when his father should 
 have come down with the dust, and he should be able 
 to pacify the bookseller. On such vague conditions 
 there began for these two young men (who were not 
 even friends) a life of great familiarity and, as the days 
 grew on, less and less intimacy. They were together 
 
 115 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 at meal times, together o' nights when the hour had 
 come for whisky toddy; but it might have been noticed 
 (had there been anyone to pay heed) that they were 
 rarely so much together by day. Archie had Hermiston 
 to attend to, multifarious activities in the hills, in which 
 he did not require, and had even refused, Frank's escort. 
 He would be off sometimes in the morning and leave 
 only a note on the breakfast table to announce the fact; 
 and sometimes, with no notice at all, he would not re- 
 turn for dinner until the hour was long past. Innes 
 groaned under these desertions; it required all his phil- 
 osophy to sit down to a solitary breakfast with compo- 
 sure, and all his unaffected good-nature to be able to 
 greet Archie with friendliness on the more rare occa- 
 sions when he came home late for dinner. 
 
 '*! wonder what on earth he finds to do, Mrs. Elli- 
 ott ? " said he one morning, after he had just read the 
 hasty billet and sat down to table. 
 
 "I suppose it will be business, sir," replied the house- 
 keeper dryly, measuring his distance off to him by an 
 indicated curtsey. 
 
 ** But I can't imagine what business! " he reiterated. 
 
 " I suppose it will be his business," retorted the aus- 
 tere Kirstie. 
 
 He turned to her with that happy brightness that 
 made the charm of his disposition, and broke into a peal 
 of healthy and natural laughter. 
 
 " Well played, Mrs. Elliott! " he cried, and the house- 
 keeper's face relaxed into the shadow of an iron smile. 
 **Well played indeed!" said he. "But you must not 
 be making a stranger of me like that. Why, Archie and 
 1 were at the High School together, and we've been to 
 
 ii6 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 college together, and we were going to the Bar to- 
 gether, when — you know! Dear, dear me I what a 
 pity that was! A life spoiled, a fine young fellow as 
 good as buried here in the wilderness with rustics; and 
 all for what ? A frolic, silly, if you like, but no more. 
 God, how good your scones are, Mrs. Elliott!" 
 
 "They're no mines, it was the lassie made them," 
 said Kirstie; *'and, saving your presence, there's little 
 sense in taking the Lord'aname in vain about idle vivers 
 that you fill your kyte wi'." 
 
 **I daresay you're perfectly right, ma'am," quoth the 
 imperturbable Frank. **But, as I was saying, this is a 
 pitiable business, this about poor Archie; and you and I 
 might do worse than put our heads together, like a 
 couple of sensible people, and bring it to an end. Let 
 me tell you, ma'am, that Archie is really quite a promis- 
 ing young man, and in my opinion he would do well 
 at the Bar. As for his father, no one can deny his abil- 
 ity, and I don't fancy anyone would care to deny that 
 he has the deil's own temper — " 
 
 "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Innes, I think the lass is 
 crying on me," said Kirstie, and flounced from the 
 room. 
 
 "The damned, cross-grained, old broom-stick!" 
 ejaculated Innes. 
 
 In the meantime, Kirstie had escaped into the kitchen, 
 and before her vassal gave vent to her feelings. 
 
 " Here, ettercap! Ye'll have to wait on yon Innes! 
 I canna haud myself in. ' Puir Erchie'! I'd * puir Er- 
 chie' him, if I had my way! And Hermiston with the 
 deil's ain temper! God, let him take Hermiston's scones 
 out of his mouth first. There's no a hair on ayther o' 
 
 117 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 the Weirs that hasna mair spunk and dirdum to it than 
 what he has in his hale dwaibly body! Settin' up his 
 snash to me! Let him gang to the black toon where 
 he's mebbe wantit — birling in a curricle — wi' pimatum 
 on his heid — making a mess o' himsel' wi' nesty hiz- 
 zies — a fair disgrace!" It was impossible to hear 
 without admiration Kirstie's graduated disgust, as she 
 brought forth, one after another, these somewhat base- 
 less charges. Then she remembered her immediate 
 purpose, and turned again on her fascinated auditor. 
 ** Do ye no hear me, tawpie ? Do ye no hear what I'm 
 tellin' ye ? Will I have to shoo ye in to him ? If I 
 come to attend to ye, mistress! " And the maid fled the 
 kitchen, which had become practically dangerous, to 
 attend on Innes' wants in the front parlour. 
 
 Tantcene irce? Has the reader perceived the rea- 
 son } Since Frank's coming there were no more hours 
 of gossip over the supper tray! All his blandishments 
 were in vain ; he had started handicapped on the race 
 for Mrs. Elliott's favour. 
 
 But it was a strange thing how misfortune dogged 
 him in his efforts to be genial. I must guard the reader 
 against accepting Kirstie's epithets as evidence; she 
 was more concerned for their vigour than for their ac- 
 curacy. Dwaibly, for instance; nothing could be more 
 calumnious. Frank was the very picture of good looks, 
 good humour, and manly youth. He had bright eyes 
 with a sparkle and a dance to them, curly hair, a charm- 
 ing smile, brilliant teeth, an admirable carriage of the 
 head, the look of a gentleman, the address of one ac- 
 customed to please at first sight and to improve the im- 
 pression. And with all these advantages, he failed with 
 
 ii8 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 everyone about Hermiston; with the silent shepherd, 
 with the obsequious grieve, with the groom who was 
 also the ploughman, with the gardener and the garden- 
 er's sister — a pious, down-hearted woman with a shawl 
 over her ears — he failed equally and flatly. They did not 
 like him, and they showed it. The little maid, indeed, 
 was an exception ; she admired him devoutly, probably 
 dreamed of him in her private hours; but she was ac- 
 customed to play the part of silent auditor to Kirstie's 
 tirades and silent recipient of Kirstie's buffets, and she 
 had learned not only to be a very capable girl of her 
 years, but a very secret and prudent one besides. Frank 
 was thus conscious that he had one ally and sympathiser 
 in the midst of that general union of disfavour that sur- 
 rounded, watched, and waited on him in the house of 
 Hermiston; but he had little comfort or society from 
 that alliance, and the demure little maid (twelve on her 
 last birthday) preserved her own counsel, and tripped 
 on his service, brisk, dumbly responsive, but inexorably 
 unconversational. For the others, they were beyond 
 hope and beyond endurance. Never had a young 
 Apollo been cast among such rustic barbarians. But 
 perhaps the cause of his ill-success lay in one trait 
 which was habitual and unconscious with him, yet 
 diagnostic of the man. It was his practice to approach 
 any one person at the expense of someone else. He 
 offered you an alliance against the someone else; he 
 flattered you by slighting him ; you were drawn into a 
 small intrigue against him before you knew how. 
 Wonderful are the virtues of this process generally; but 
 Frank's mistake was in the choice of the someone else. 
 He was not politic in that; he listened to the voice of 
 
 ri9 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 irritation. Archie had offended him at first by what he 
 had felt to be rather a dry reception; had offended him 
 since by his frequent absences. He was besides the 
 one figure continually present in Frank's eye; and it 
 was to his immediate dependents that Frank could offer 
 the snare of his sympathy. Now the truth is that the 
 Weirs, father and son, were surrounded by a posse of 
 strenuous loyalists. Of my lord they were vastly proud. 
 It was a distinction in itself to be one of the vassals of 
 the " Hanging Judge," and his gross, formidable jovial- 
 ity was far from unpopular in the neighbourhood of his 
 home. For Archie they had, one and all, a sensitive 
 affection and respect which recoiled from a word of 
 belittlement. 
 
 Nor was Frank more successful when he went far- 
 ther afield. To the Four Black Brothers, for instance, 
 he was antipathetic in the highest degree. Hob thought 
 him too light, Gib too profane. Clem, who saw him 
 but for a day or two before he went to Glasgow, 
 wanted to know what the fule's business was, and 
 whether he meant to stay here all session time ! ** Yon's 
 a drone," he pronounced. As for Dand, it will be 
 enough to describe their first meeting, when Frank had 
 been whipping a river and the rustic celebrity chanced 
 to come along the path. 
 
 "I'm told you are quite a poet," Frank had said. 
 
 *' Wha tell 't ye that, mannie ? " had been the uncon- 
 ciliating answer. 
 
 **0, everybody," says Frank. 
 
 *'God! Here's fame!" said the sardonic poet, and 
 he had passed on his way. 
 
 Come to think of it, we have here perhaps a truer 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 explanation of Frank's failures. Had he met Mr. Sher- 
 iff Scott he could have turned a neater compliment, be- 
 cause Mr. Scott would have been a friend worth mak- 
 ing. Dand, on the other hand, he did not value six- 
 pence, and he showed it even while he tried to flatter. 
 Condescension is an excellent thing, but it is strange 
 how one-sided the pleasure of it is! He who goes 
 fishing among the Scots peasantry with condescension 
 for a bait will have an empty basket by evening. 
 
 In proof of this theory Frank made a great success 
 of it at the Crossmichael Club, to which Archie took 
 him immediately on his arrival; his own last appearance 
 on that scene of gaiety. Frank was made welcome 
 there at once, continued to go regularly, and had at- 
 tended a meeting (as the members ever after loved to 
 tell) on the evening before his death. Young Hay and 
 young Pringle appeared again. There was another 
 supper at Windielaws, another dinner at Driffel; and it 
 resulted in Frank being taken to the bosom of the 
 county people as unreservedly as he had been repudi- 
 ated by the country folk. He occupied Hermiston after 
 the manner of an invader in a conquered capital. He 
 was perpetually issuing from it, as from a base, to toddy 
 parties, fishing parties, and dinner parties, to which 
 Archie was not invited, or to which Archie would not 
 go. It was now that the name of The Recluse became 
 general for the young man. Some say that Innes in- 
 vented it; Innes, at least, spread it abroad. 
 
 '* How's all with your Recluse to-day?" people 
 would ask. 
 
 '*0, reclusing away!" Innes would declare, with 
 his bright air of saying something witty; and immedi- 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 ately interrupt the general laughter which he had pro- 
 voked much more by his air than his words, "Mind 
 you, it's all very well laughing, but I 'm not very well 
 pleased. Poor Archie is a good fellow, an excellent 
 fellow, a fellow I always liked. I think it small of him 
 to take his little disgrace so hard and shut himself up. 
 * Grant that it is a ridiculous story, painfully ridiculous,' 
 I keep telling him. * Be a man! Live it down, man! ' 
 But not he. Of course it's just solitude, and shame, 
 and all that. But I confess I 'm beginning to fear the 
 result. It would be all the pities in the world if a really 
 promising fellow like Weir was to end ill. I'm seri- 
 ously tempted to write to Lord Hermiston, and put it 
 plainly to him." 
 
 "I would if I were you," some of his auditors would 
 say, shaking the head, sitting bewildered and confused 
 at this new view of the matter, so deftly indicated by 
 a single word. "A capital idea!" they would add, 
 and wonder at the aplomb and position of this young 
 man, who talked as a matter of course of writing to 
 Hermiston and correcting him upon his private atfairs. 
 
 And Frank would proceed, sweetly confidential: 
 **I '11 give you an idea, now. He 's actually sore 
 about the way that I 'm received and he's left out in 
 the county — actually jealous and sore. I've rallied 
 him and I've reasoned with him, told him that everyone 
 was most kindly inclined towards him, told him even 
 that I was received merely because I was his guest. 
 But it's no use. He will neither accept the invitations 
 he gets, nor stop brooding about the ones where he's 
 left out. What I'm afraid of is that the wound's ulcer- 
 ating. He had always one of those dark, secret, angry 
 
 122 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 natures — a little underhand and plenty of bile — you 
 know the sort. He must have inherited it from the 
 Weirs, whom I suspect to have been a worthy family 
 of weavers somewhere; what's the cant phrase! — sed- 
 entary occupation. It's precisely the kind of character 
 to go wrong in a false position like what his father's 
 made for him, or he's making for himself, whichever 
 you like to call it. And for my part, I think it a dis- 
 grace," Frank would say generously. 
 
 Presently the sorrow and anxiety of this disinterested 
 friend took shape. He began in private, in conversa- 
 tions of two, to talk vaguely of bad habits and lovr 
 habits. ** I must say I'm afraid he's going wrong alto- 
 gether," he would say. "V\\ tell you plainly, and be- 
 tween ourselves, I scarcely like to stay there any longer; 
 only, man, I'm positively afraid to leave him alone. 
 You'll see, I shall be blamed for it later on. I'm staying 
 at a great sacrifice. I'm hindering my chances at the 
 Bar, and I can't blind my eyes to it. And what I'm 
 afraid of is that I'm going to get kicked for it all round 
 before all's done. You see, nobody believes in friend- 
 ship nowadays." 
 
 "Well, Innes," his interlocutor would reply, ''it's 
 very good of you, I must say that. If there's any blame 
 going you'll always be sure of my good word, for one 
 thing." 
 
 "Well," Frank would continue, "candidly, I don't 
 say it's pleasant. He has a very rough way with him ; 
 his father's son, you know. I don't say he's rude — of 
 course, I couldn't be expected to stand that — but he 
 steers very near the wind. No, it's not pleasant; but 
 I tell ye, man, in conscience I don't think it would be 
 
 123 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 (air to leave him. Mind you, I don't say there's any- 
 thing actually wrong. What I say is that I don't like 
 the looks of it, man ! " and he would press the arm of 
 his momentary confidant. 
 
 In the early stages I am persuaded there was no 
 malice. He talked but for the pleasure of airing himself. 
 He was essentially glib, as becomes the young advocate, 
 and essentially careless of the truth, which is the mark 
 of the young ass; and so he talked at random. There 
 was no particular bias, but that one which is indige- 
 nous and universal, to flatter himself and to please and 
 interest the present friend. And by thus milling air out 
 of his mouth, he had presently built up a presentation of 
 Archie which was known and talked of in all corners 
 of the county. Wherever there was a residential 
 house and a walled garden, wherever there was a 
 dwarfish castle and a park, wherever a quadruple cot- 
 tage by the ruins of a peel-tower showed an old family 
 going down, and wherever a handsome villa with a 
 carriage approach and a shrubbery marked the coming 
 up of a new one — probably on the wheels of machinery 
 — Archie began to be regarded in the light of a dark, 
 perhaps a vicious mystery, and the future developments 
 of his career to be looked for with uneasiness and con- 
 fidential whispering. He had done something disgrace- 
 ful, my dear. What, was not precisely known, and 
 that good kind young man, Mr. Innes, did his best to 
 make light of it. But there it was. And Mr. Innes 
 was very anxious about him now; he was really un- 
 easy, my dear; he was positively wrecking his own 
 prospects because he dared not leave him alone. How 
 wholly we all lie at the mercy of a single prater, not 
 
 124 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 needfully with any malign purpose ! And if a man but 
 talks of himself in the right spirit, refers to his virtuous 
 actions by the way, and never applies to them the name 
 of virtue, how easily his evidence is accepted in the 
 court of public opinion. 
 
 All this while, however, there was a more poisonous 
 ferment at work between the two lads, which came late 
 indeed to the surface, but had modified and magnified 
 their dissensions from the first. To an idle, shallow, 
 easy-going customer like Frank, the smell of a mystery 
 was attractive. It gave his mind something to play with, 
 like a new toy to a child; and it took him on the weak 
 side, for like many young men coming to the Bar, and 
 before they have been tried and found wanting, he flat- 
 tered himself he was a fellow of unusual quickness and 
 penetration. They knew nothing of Sherlock Holmes in 
 these days, but there was a good deal said of Talleyrand. 
 And if you could have caught Frank off his guard, he 
 would have confessed with a smirk, that, if he resembled 
 anyone, it was the Marquis de Talleyrand-Perigord. It 
 was on the occasion of Archie's first absence that this 
 interest took root. It was vastly deepened when Kirstie 
 resented his curiosity at breakfast, and that same after- 
 noon there occurred another scene which clinched the 
 business. He was fishing Swingleburn, Archie accom- 
 panying him, when the latter looked at his watch. 
 
 " Well, good-bye," said he. *' I have something to 
 do. See you at dinner." 
 
 '* Don't be in such a hurry," cries Frank. " Hold on 
 till I get my rod up. I'll go with you; I'm sick of flog- 
 ging this ditch." 
 
 And he began to reel up his line. 
 125 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 Archie stood speechless. He took a long while to 
 recover his wits under this direct attack; but by the 
 time he was ready with his answer, and the angle was 
 almost packed up, he had become completely Weir, and 
 the hanging face gloomed on his young shoulders. He 
 spoke with a laboured composure, a laboured kindness 
 even; but a child could see that his mind was made up. 
 
 ** I beg your pardon, Innes; I don't want to be dis- 
 agreeable, but let us understand one another from the 
 beginning. When I want your company, I'll let you 
 know." 
 
 *'0h!" cries Frank, *'you don't want my company, 
 don't you.?" 
 
 " Apparently not just now," replied Archie. " I even 
 indicated to you when I did, if you'll remember — and 
 that was at dinner. If we two fellows are to live to- 
 gether pleasantly — and I see no reason why we should 
 not — it can only be by respecting each other's privacy. 
 If we begin intruding — " 
 
 "Oh, come! I'll take this at no man's hands. Is this 
 the way you treat a guest and an old friend ? " cried 
 Innes. 
 
 "Just go home and think over what I said by your- 
 self," continued Archie, "whether it's reasonable, or 
 whether it's really offensive or not; and let's meet at 
 dinner as though nothing had happened. I'll put it this 
 way, if you like — that 1 know my own character, that 
 I'm looking forward (with great pleasure, I assure you) 
 to a long visit from you, and that I'm taking precautions 
 at the first. I see the thing that we — that I, if you 
 like — might fall out upon, and I step in and obsto prin- 
 cipiis. I wager you five pounds you'll end by seeing 
 
 126 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 that I mean friendliness, and I assure you, Francie, I do," 
 he added, relenting. 
 
 Bursting with anger, but incapable of speech, Innes 
 shouldered his rod, made a gesture of farewell, and strode 
 off down the burnside. Archie watched him go with- 
 out moving. He was sorry, but quite unashamed. He 
 hated to be inhospitable, but in one thing he was his 
 father's son. He had a strong sense that his house was 
 his own and no man else's ; and to lie at a guest's mercy 
 was what he refused. He hated to seem harsh. But 
 that was Frank's look-out. If Frank had been com- 
 monly discreet, he would have been decently courteous. 
 And there was another consideration. The secret he 
 was protecting was not his own merely; it was hers; it 
 belonged to that inexpressible she who was fast taking 
 possession of his soul, and whom he would soon have 
 defended at the cost of burning cities. By the time he 
 had watched Frank as far as the Swingleburnfoot, ap- 
 pearing and disappearing in the tarnished heather, still 
 stalking at a fierce gait but already dwindled in the dis- 
 tance into less than the smallness of Lilliput, he could 
 afford to smile at the occurrence. Either Frank would 
 go, and that would be a relief — or he would continue 
 to stay, and his host must continue to endure him. And 
 Archie was now free — by devious paths, behind hillocks 
 and in the hollow of burns — to make for the trysting- 
 place where Kirstie, cried about by the curlew and the 
 plover, waited and burned for his coming by the Cove- 
 nanter's stone. 
 
 Innes went off down-hill in a passion of resentment, 
 easy to be understood, but which yielded progressively 
 to the needs of his situation. He cursed Archie for a 
 
 127 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 cold-hearted, unfriendly, rude dog; and himself still 
 more passionately for a fool in having come to Hermis- 
 ton when he might have sought refuge in almost any 
 other house in Scotland, but the step once taken was 
 practically irretrievable. He had no more ready money 
 to go anywhere else; he would have to borrow from 
 Archie the next club-night; and ill as he thought of his 
 host's manners, he was sure of his practical generosity. 
 Frank's resemblance to Talleyrand strikes me as imagi- 
 nary; but at least not Talleyrand himself could have 
 more obediently taken his lesson from the facts. He 
 met Archie at dinner without resentment, almost with 
 cordiality. You must take your friends as you find 
 them, he would have said. Archie couldn't help being 
 his father's son, or his grandfather's, the hypothetical 
 weaver's, grandson. The son of a hunks, he was still 
 a hunks at heart, incapable of true generosity and con- 
 sideration ; but he had other qualities with which Frank 
 could divert himself in the meanwhile, and to enjoy 
 which it was necessary that Frank should keep his 
 temper. 
 
 So excellently was it controlled that he awoke next 
 morning with his head full of a different, though a cog- 
 nate subject. What was Archie's little game ? Why 
 did he shun Frank's company ? What was he keeping 
 secret? Was he keeping tryst with somebody, and 
 was it a woman ? It would be a good joke and a fair 
 revenge to discover. To that task he set himself with 
 a great deal of patience, which might have surprised his 
 friends, for he had been always credited not with pa- 
 tience so much as brilliancy; and little by little, from 
 one point to another, he at last succeeded in piecing out 
 
 128 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 the situation. First he remarked that, although Archie 
 set out in all the directions of the compass, he always 
 came home again from some point between the south 
 and west. From the study of a map, and in consider- 
 ation of the great expanse of untenanted moorland run- 
 ning in that direction towards the sources of the Clyde, 
 he laid his finger on Cauldstaneslap and two other 
 neighbouring farms, Kingsmuirs and Polintarf But it 
 was difficult to advance farther. With his rod for a 
 pretext, he vainly visited each of them in turn ; nothing 
 was to be seen suspicious about this trinity of moorland 
 settlements. He would have tried to follow Archie, 
 had it been the least possible, but the nature of the land 
 precluded the idea. He did the next best, ensconced 
 himself in a quiet corner, and pursued his movements 
 with a telescope. It was equally in vain, and he soon 
 wearied of his futile vigilance, left the telescope at home, 
 and had almost given the matter up in despair, when, 
 on the twenty-seventh day of his visit, he was suddenly 
 confronted with the person whom he sought. The first 
 Sunday Kirstie had managed to stay away from kirk on 
 some pretext of indisposition, which was more truly 
 modesty; the pleasure of beholding Archie seeming too 
 sacred, too vivid for that public place. On the two 
 following Frank had himself been absent on some of 
 his excursions among the neighbouring families. It 
 was not until the fourth, accordingly, that Frank had 
 occasion to set eyes on the enchantress. With the first 
 look, all hesitation was over. She came with the 
 Cauldstaneslap party; then she lived at Cauldstaneslap. 
 Here was Archie's secret, here was the woman, and 
 more than that — though I have need here of every 
 
 129 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 manageable attenuation of language — with the first 
 look, he had already entered himself as rival. It was a 
 good deal in pique, it was a little in revenge, it was 
 much in genuine admiration : the devil may decide the 
 proportions ; I cannot, and it is very likely that Frank 
 could not. 
 
 "Mighty attractive milkmaid," he observed, on the 
 way home. 
 
 '*Who?" said Archie. 
 
 "O, the girl you're looking at — aren't you? For- 
 ward there on the road. She came attended by the 
 rustic bard ; presumably, therefore, belongs to his ex- 
 alted family. The single objection ! for the four black 
 brothers are awkward customers. If anything were to 
 go wrong, Gib would gibber, and Clem would prove 
 inclement; and Dand fly in danders, and Hob blow up 
 in gobbets. It would be a Helliott of a business ! " 
 
 ** Very humorous, I am sure," said Archie. 
 
 '*Well, I am trying to be so," said Frank. "It's 
 none too easy in this place, and with your solemn so- 
 ciety, my dear fellow. But confess that the milkmaid 
 has found favour in your eyes or resign all claim to b^ 
 a man of taste." 
 
 ** It is no matter," returned Archie. 
 
 But the other continued to look at him, steadily and 
 quizzically, and his colour slowly rose and deepened 
 under the glance, until not impudence itself could have 
 denied that he was blushing. And at this Archie lost 
 some of his control. He changed his stick from one 
 hand to the other, and — " O, for God's sake, don't be 
 an ass!" he cried. 
 
 "Ass? That's the retort delicate without doubt," 
 130 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 says Frank. *' Beware of the homespun brothers, dear. 
 If they come into the dance, you'll see who's an ass. 
 Think now, if they only applied (say) a quarter as much 
 talent as I have applied to the question of what Mr. 
 Archie does with his evening hours, and why he is so 
 unaffectedly nasty when the subject's touched on — " 
 
 ** You are touching on it now," interrupted Archie 
 with a wince. 
 
 *' Thank you. That was all I wanted, an articulate 
 confession," said Frank. 
 
 " I beg to remind you — " began Archie. 
 
 But he was interrupted in turn. '* My dear fellow, 
 don't. It's quite needless. The subject's dead and 
 buried." 
 
 And Frank began to talk hastily on other matters, an 
 art in which he was an adept, for it was his gift to be 
 fluent on anything or nothing. But although Archie 
 had the grace or the timidity to suffer him to rattle on, 
 he was by no means done with the subject. When he 
 came home to dinner, he was greeted with a sly de- 
 mand, how things were looking " Cauldstaneslap 
 ways. " Frank took his first glass of port out after din- 
 ner to the toast of Kirstie, and later in the evening he 
 returned to the charge again. 
 
 ** I say, Weir, you'll excuse me for returning again to 
 this affair. I've been thinking it over, and I wish to 
 beg you very seriously to be more careful. It's not a 
 safe business. Not safe, my boy," said he. 
 
 "What.? "said Archie. 
 
 ** Well, it's your own fault if I must put a name on 
 the thing; but really, as a friend, I cannot stand by and 
 see you rushing head down into these dangers. My 
 
 i3» 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 dear boy," said he, holding up a warning cigar, " con- 
 sider what is to be the end of it ? " 
 
 ** The end of what ? " — Archie, helpless with irrita- 
 tion, persisted in this dangerous and ungracious guard. 
 
 ** Well, the end of the milkmaid; or, to speak more 
 by the card, the end of Miss Christina Elliott of the 
 Cauldstaneslap ?" 
 
 " I assure you," Archie broke out, " this is all a fig- 
 ment of your imagination. There is nothing to be said 
 against that young lady; you have no right to introduce 
 her name into the conversation." 
 
 *M'll make a note of it," said Frank. "She shall 
 henceforth be nameless, nameless, nameless, Grigalach! 
 I make a note besides of your valuable testimony to her 
 character. I only want to look at this thing as a man 
 of the world. Admitted she's an angel — but, my good 
 fellow, is she a lady ? " 
 
 This was torture to Archie. *' I beg your pardon," 
 he said, struggling to be composed, " but because you 
 have wormed yourself into my confidence — " 
 
 "O, come!" cried Frank. "Your confidence? It 
 was rosy but unconsenting. Your confidence, indeed ? 
 Now, look! This is what I must say. Weir, for it con- 
 cerns your safety and good character, and therefore my 
 honour as your friend. You say I wormed myself into 
 your confidence. Wormed is good. But what have I 
 done ? I have put two and two together, just as the 
 parish will be doing to-morrow, and the whole of 
 Tweeddale in two weeks, and the black brothers — 
 well, I won't put a date on that; it will be a dark and 
 stormy morning. Your secret, in other words, is poor 
 
 133 
 
ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES 
 
 Poll's. And I want to ask of you as a friend whether 
 you like the prospect? There are two horns to your 
 dilemma, and 1 must say for myself I should look mighty 
 ruefully on either. Do you see yourself explaining to 
 the Four Black Brothers ? or do you see yourself pre- 
 senting the milkmaid to papa as the future lady of 
 Hermiston ? Do you ? I tell you plainly, I don't." 
 
 Archie rose. " I will hear no more of this," he said 
 in a trembling voice. 
 
 But Frank again held up his cigar. ''Tell me one 
 thing first. Tell me if this is not a friend's part that I 
 am playing ? " 
 
 *M believe you think it so," replied Archie. " I can 
 go as far as that. I can do so much justice to your 
 motives. But I will hear no more of it. I am going to 
 bed." 
 
 ''That's right, Weir," said Frank, heartily. " Go to 
 bed and think over it; and, I say, man, don't forget your 
 prayers ! I don't often do the moral — don't go in for 
 that sort of thing — but when I do there's one thing 
 sure, that I mean it." 
 
 So Archie marched off to bed, and Frank sat alone by 
 the table for another hour or so, smilingto himself richly. 
 There was nothing vindictive in his nature; but, if re- 
 venge came in his way, it might as well be good, and 
 the thought of Archie's pillow reflections that night was 
 indescribably sweet to him. He felt a pleasant sense 
 of power. He looked down on Archie as on a very 
 little boy whose strings he pulled — as on a horse whom 
 he had backed and bridled by sheer power of intelli- 
 gence, and whom he might ride to glory or the grave 
 
 ^33 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 at pleasure. Which was it to be ? He lingered long, 
 relishing the details of schemes that he was too idle to 
 pursue. Poor cork upon a torrent, he tasted that night 
 the sweets of omnipotence, and brooded like a deity 
 over the strands of that intrigue which was to shatter 
 him before the summer waned. 
 
 «M 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A NOCTURNAL VISIT 
 
 KiRSTiE had many causes of distress. More and more 
 as we grow old — and yet more and more as we grow 
 old and are women, frozen by the fear of age — we 
 come to rely on the voice as the single outlet of the soul. 
 Only thus, in the curtailment of our means, can we re- 
 lieve the straitened cry of the passion within us; 
 only thus, in the bitter and sensitive shyness of advanc- 
 ing years, can we maintain relations with those vivacious 
 figures of the young that still show before us, and tend 
 daily to become no more than the moving wall-paper of 
 life. Talk is the last link, the last relation. But with the 
 end of the conversation, when the voice stops and the 
 bright face of the listener is turned away, solitude falls 
 again on the bruised heart. Kirstie had lost her " cannie 
 hour at e'en"; she could no more wander with Archie, a 
 ghost, if you will, but a happy ghost, in fields Elysian. 
 And to her it was as if the whole world had fallen si- 
 lent; to him, but an unremarkable change of amuse- 
 ments. And she raged to know it. The effervescency 
 of her passionate and irritable nature rose within her at 
 times to bursting point. 
 
 This is the price paid by age for unseasonable ardours 
 of feeling. It must have been so for Kirstie at any time 
 when the occasion chanced ; but it so fell out that she 
 
 135 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 was deprived of this delight in the hour when she had 
 most need of it, when she had most to say, most to ask, 
 and when she trembled to recognize her sovereignty 
 not merely in abeyance but annulled. For, with the 
 clairvoyance of a genuine love, she had pierced the mys- 
 tery that had so long embarrassed Frank. She was 
 conscious, even before it was carried out, even on that 
 Sunday night when it began, of an invasion of her rights; 
 and a voice told her the invader's name. Since then, 
 by arts, by accident, by small things observed, and by 
 the general drift of Archie's humor, she had passed be- 
 yond all possibility of doubt. With a sense of justice 
 that Lord Hermiston might have envied, she had that 
 day in church considered and admitted the attractions 
 of the younger Kirstie; and with the profound humanity 
 and sentimentality of her nature, she had recognized 
 the coming of fate. Not thus would she have chosen. 
 She had seen, in imagination, Archie wedded to some 
 tall, powerful, and rosy heroine of the golden locks, 
 made in her own image, for whom she would have 
 strewed the bride-bed with delight; and now she could 
 have wept to see the ambition falsified. But the gods 
 had pronounced, and her doom was otherwise. 
 
 She lay tossing in bed that night, besieged with fever- 
 ish thoughts. There were dangerous matters pending, 
 a battle was toward, over the fate of which she hung 
 in jealousy, sympathy, fear, and alternate loyalty and 
 disloyalty to either side. Now she was re-incarnated 
 in her niece, and now in Archie. Now she saw, through 
 the girl's eyes, the youth on his knees to her, heard his 
 persuasive instances with a deadly weakness, and re- 
 ceived his over-mastering caresses. Anon, with a re- 
 
 136 
 
A NOCTURNAL VISIT 
 
 vulsion, her temper raged to see such utmost favours 
 of fortune and love squandered on a brat of a girl, one 
 of her own house, using her own name — a deadly 
 ingredient — and that "didnae ken her ain mind an' 
 was as black's your hat." Now she trembled lest her 
 deity should plead in vain, loving the idea of success 
 for him like a triumph of nature ; anon, with returning 
 loyalty to her own family and sex, she trembled for 
 Kirstie and the credit of the Elliotts. And again she 
 had a vision of herself, the day over for her old-world 
 tales and local gossip, bidding farewell to her last link 
 with life and brightness and love; and behind and be- 
 yond, she saw but the blank butt-end where she must 
 crawl to die. Had she then come to the lees ? she, so 
 great, so beautiful, with a heart as fresh as a girl's and 
 strong as womanhood ? It could not be, and yet it 
 was so; and for a moment her bed was horrible to her 
 as the sides of the grave. And she looked forward 
 over a waste of hours, and saw herself go on to rage, 
 and tremble, and be softened, and rage again, until the 
 day came and the labours of the day must be renewed. 
 Suddenly she heard feet on the stairs — his feet, and 
 soon after the sound of a window-sash flung open. 
 She sat up with her heart beating. He had gone to his 
 room alone, and he had not gone to bed. She might 
 again have one of her night cracks ; and at the entran- 
 cing prospect, a change came over her mind; with the 
 approach of this hope of pleasure, all the baser metal 
 became immediately obliterated from her thoughts. 
 She rose, all woman, and all the best of woman, ten- 
 der, pitiful, hating the wrong, loyal to her own sex — 
 and all the weakest of that dear miscellany, nourishing, 
 
 137 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 cherishing next her soft heart, voicelessly flattering, 
 hopes that she would have died sooner than have ac- 
 knowledged. She tore off her nightcap, and her hair 
 fell about her shoulders in profusion. Undying coquetry 
 awoke. By the faint light of her nocturnal rush, she 
 stood before the looking-glass, carried her shapely 
 arms above her head, and gathered up the treasures 
 of her tresses. She was never backward to admire 
 herself; that kind of modesty was a stranger to her na- 
 ture; and she paused, struck with a pleased wonder at 
 the sight. "Ye daft auld wife!" she said, answering 
 a thought that was not; and she blushed with the inno- 
 cent consciousness of a child. Hastily she did up the 
 massive and shining coils, hastily donned a wrapper, 
 and with the rush-light in her hand, stole into the hall. 
 Below stairs she heard the clock ticking the deliberate 
 seconds, and Frank jingling with the decanters in the 
 dining-room. Aversion rose in her, bitter and mo- 
 mentary. *'Nesty, tippling puggy!" she thought; 
 and the next moment she had knocked guardedly at 
 Archie's door and was bidden enter. 
 
 Archie had been looking out into the ancient black- 
 ness, pierced here and there with a rayless star; taking 
 the sweet air of the moors and the night into his bosom 
 deeply ; seeking, perhaps finding, peace after the man- 
 ner of the unhappy. He turned round as she came in, 
 and showed her a pale face against the window-frame. 
 
 '* Is that you, Kirstie ? " he asked. " Come in ! " 
 
 " It's unco late, my dear," said Kirstie, affecting un- 
 willingness. 
 
 **No, no," he answered, ** not at all. Come in, if 
 you want a crack. I am not sleepy, God knows." 
 
 138 
 
A NOCTURNAL VISIT 
 
 She advanced, took a chair by the toilet table and the 
 candle, and set the rush-light at her foot. Something — 
 it might be in the comparative disorder of her dress, it 
 might be the emotion that now welled in her bosom — 
 had touched her with a wand of transformation, and 
 she seemed young with the youth of goddesses. 
 
 ** Mr. Erchie," she began, *' what's this that's come 
 to ye?" 
 
 **I am not aware of anything that has come," said 
 Archie, and blushed and repented bitterly that he had 
 let her in. 
 
 ** Oh, my dear, that'll no dae! " said Kirstie. *' It's 
 ill to blind the eyes of love. Oh, Mr. Erchie, tak' a 
 thocht ere it's ower late. Ye shouldnae be impatient o' 
 the braws o' life, they'll a' come in their saison, like the 
 sun and the rain. Ye're young yet; ye've mony cantie 
 years afore ye. See and dinnae wreck yersel at the out- 
 set like sae mony ithers! Hae patience — they telled 
 me aye that was the owercome o' life — hae patience, 
 there's a braw day coming yet. Gude kens it never 
 cam to me; and here I am wi' nayther man nor bairn 
 to ca* my ain, wearying a' folks wi' my ill tongue, and 
 you just the first, Mr. Erchie ? " 
 
 "I have a difficulty in knowing what you mean," 
 said Archie. 
 
 *'Weel, and I'll tell ye," she said. **It's just this, 
 that I'm feared. I'm feared for ye, my dear. Remem- 
 ber, your faither is a hard man, reaping where he hasnae 
 sowed and gaithering where he hasnae strawed. It's 
 easy speakin', but mind ! Ye'll have to look in the gurl> 
 face o'm, where it's ill to look, and vain to look for 
 mercy. Ye mind me o' a bonny ship pitten oot into 
 
 139 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 the black and gowsty seas — ye're a' safe still sittin' 
 quait and crackin' wi' Kirstie in your lown chalmer; 
 but whaur will ye be the morn, and in whatten horror 
 o' the fearsome tempest, cryin' on the hills to cover 
 ye?" 
 
 "Why, Kirstie, you're very enigmatical to-night — 
 and very eloquent," Archie put in. 
 
 ** And, my dear Mr. Erchie," she continued, with a 
 change of voice, "ye mauna think that I canna sym- 
 pathise wi' ye. Ye mauna think that I havena been 
 young mysel'. Langsyne, when I was a bit lassie, no 
 twenty yet — " She paused and sighed. " Clean and 
 caller, wi' a fit like the hinney bee," she continued. 
 "I was aye big and buirdly, ye maun understand; a 
 bonny figure o' a woman, though I say it that suldna — 
 built to rear bairns — braw bairns they suld hae been, 
 and grand I would hae likit it! But I was young, dear, 
 wi' the bonny glint o' youth in my e'en, and little I 
 dreamed I'd ever be tellin' ye this, an auld, lanely, 
 rudas wife! Weel, Mr. Erchie, there was a lad cam' 
 courtin' me, as was but naetural. Mony had come be- 
 fore, and I would nane o' them. But this yin had a 
 tongue to wile the birds frae the lift and the bees frae the 
 fox-glove bells. Deary me, but it's lang syne. Folk 
 have deed sinsyne and been buried, and are forgotten, 
 and bairns been born and got merrit and got bairns o' 
 their ain. Sinsyne woods have been plantit, and have 
 grawn up and are bonny trees, and the joes sit in their 
 shadow, and sinsyne auld estates have changed hands, 
 and there have been wars and rumours of wars on the 
 face of the earth. And here I'm still — like an auld 
 droopit craw — lookin' on and craikin* ? But, Mr. 
 
 140 
 
A NOCTURNAL VISIT 
 
 Erchie, do ye no think that I have mind o' it a' still ? I 
 was dwalling then in my faither's house; and it's a 
 curious thing that we were whiles trysted in the Deil's 
 Hags. And do ye no think that I have mind of the 
 bonny simmer days, the lang miles, o' the bluid-red 
 heather, the cryin' o' the whaups, and the lad and the 
 lassie that was trysted ? Do ye no think that I mind 
 how the hilly sweetness ran about my hairt. Ay, Mr. 
 Erchie, I ken the way o' it — fine do I ken the way — 
 how the grace o' God takes them like Paul of Tarsus, 
 when they think o' it least, and drives the pair o' them 
 into a land which is like a dream, and the world and 
 the folks in't are nae mair than clouds to the puir lassie, 
 and Heeven nae mair than windle-straes, if she can but 
 pleesure him! Until Tam deed — that was my story," 
 she broke off to say, **he deed, and I wasna at the 
 buryin'. But while he was here, I could take care o' 
 mysel'. And can yon puir lassie ? " 
 
 Kirstie, her eyes shining with unshed tears, stretched 
 out her hand towards him appealingly; the bright and 
 the dull gold of her hair flashed and smouldered in the 
 coils behind her comely head, like the rays of an eternal 
 youth; the pure colour had risen in her face; and Archie 
 was abashed alike by her beauty and her story. He 
 came towards her slowly from the window, took up 
 her hand in his and kissed it. 
 
 "Kirstie," he said hoarsely, '*you have misjudged 
 me sorely. I have always thought of her, I wouldna 
 harm her for the universe, my woman." 
 
 *'Eh, lad, and that's easy sayin'," cried Kirstie, "but 
 it's nane sae easy doin! Man, do ye no comprehend 
 that it's God's wull we should be blendit and glamoured, 
 
 141 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 and have nae command over our ain members at a time 
 like that ? My bairn," she cried, still holding his hand, 
 '* think o' the puir lass! have pity upon her, Erchie! and 
 O, be v^ise for twa ! Think o' the risk she rins! I 
 have seen ye, and what's to prevent ithers ? I saw ye 
 once in the Hags, in my ain howl, and I was wae to see 
 ye there — in pairt for the omen, for I think there's a 
 weird on the place — and in pairt for puir nakit envy 
 and bitterness o' hairt. It's strange ye should forgather 
 there tae! God! but yon puir, thrawn, auld Covenanter's 
 seen a heap o' human natur since he lookit his last on 
 the musket barrels, if he never saw nane afore," she 
 added with a kind of wonder in her eyes. 
 
 " I swear by my honour I have done her no wrong," 
 said Archie. ** I swear by my honour and the redemp- 
 tion of my soul that there shall none be done her. I 
 have heard of this before. I have been foolish, Kirstie, 
 not unkind and, above all, not base." 
 
 "There's my bairn! " said Kirstie, rising. *M'I1 can 
 trust ye noo, I'll can gang to my bed wi' an easy hairt." 
 And then she saw in a flash how barren had been her 
 triumph. Archie had promised to spare the girl, and he 
 would keep it; but who had promised to spare Archie? 
 What was to be the end of it ? Over a maze of difficulties 
 she glanced, and saw, at the end of every passage, the 
 flinty countenance of Hermiston. And a kind of horror 
 fell upon her at what she had done. She wore a tragic 
 mask. "Erchie, the Lord peety you, dear, and peety 
 me! I have buildit on this foundation," — laying her 
 hand heavily on his shoulder — "and buildit hie, and pit 
 my hairt in the buildin' of it. If the hale hypothec were 
 to fa', I think, laddie, I would dee! Excuse a daft wife 
 
 142 
 
A NOCTURNAL VISIT 
 
 that loves ye, and that kenned your mither. And for 
 His name's sake keep yersel' frae inordinate desires; 
 haud your heart in baith your hands, carry it canny and 
 iaigh ; dinna send it up like a bairn's kite into the collies- 
 hangie o' the wunds ? Mind, Maister Erchie dear, that 
 this life's a disappointment, and a mouthfu' o' mools is 
 the appointed end." 
 
 ** Ay, but Kirstie, my woman, you're asking me ower 
 much at last," said Archie, profoundly moved, and 
 lapsing into the broad Scots. " Ye're asking what nae 
 man can grant ye, what only the Lord of heaven can 
 grant ye if He see fit. Ay! And can even he? 1 can 
 promise ye what I shall do, and you can depend on that. 
 But how I shall feel — my woman, that is long past 
 thinking of!" 
 
 They were both standing by now opposite each other. 
 The face of Archie wore the wretched semblance of a 
 smile; hers was convulsed for a moment. 
 
 " Promise me ae thing," she cried, in a sharp voice. 
 " Promise me ye'll never do naething without telling 
 me. 
 
 ''No, Kirstie, I canna promise ye that," he replied. 
 ** I have promised enough, God kens! " 
 
 **May the blessing of God lift and rest upon ye, 
 dear! " she said. 
 
 '* God bless ye, my old friend," said he. 
 
 143 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 AT THE WEAVER S STONE 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when Archie drew neai 
 by the hill path to the Praying Weaver's stone. The 
 Hags were in shadow. But still, through the gate of 
 the Slap, the sun shot a last arrow, which spead far and 
 straight across the surface of the moss, here and there 
 touching and shining on a tussock, and lighted at length 
 on the gravestone and the small figure awaiting him 
 there. The emptiness and solitude of the great moors 
 seemed to be concentred there, and Kirstie pointed out 
 by that figure of sunshine for the only inhabitant. His 
 first sight of her was thus excruciatingly sad, like a 
 glimpse of a world from which all light, comfort, and 
 society were on the point of vanishing. And the next 
 moment, when she had turned her face to him and the 
 quick smile had enlightened it, the whole face of nature 
 smiled upon him in her smile of welcome. Archie's 
 slow pace was quickened; his legs hasted to her 
 though his heart was hanging back. The girl, upon 
 her side, drew herself together slowly and stood up, 
 expectant; she was all languor, her face was gone 
 white; her arms ached for him, her soul was on tip- 
 toes. But he deceived her, pausing a few steps away, 
 not less white than herself, and holding up his hand 
 with a gesture of denial. 
 
 144 
 
AT THE WEAVER'S STONE 
 
 "No, Christina, not to-day,*' he said. "To-day I 
 have to talk to you seriously. Sit ye down, please, 
 there where you were. Please! " he repeated. 
 
 The revulsion of feeling in Christina's heart was vio- 
 lent. To have longed and waited these weary hours 
 for him, rehearsing her endearments — to have seen him 
 at last come — to have been ready there, breathless, 
 wholly passive, his to do what he would with — and 
 suddenly to have found herself confronted with a grey- 
 faced, harsh schoolmaster — it was too rude a shock. 
 She could have wept, but pride withheld her. She sat 
 down on the stone, from which she had arisen, part 
 with the instinct of obedience, part as though she had 
 been thrust there. What was this ? Why was she re- 
 jected ? Had she ceased to please ? She stood here of- 
 fering her wares, and he would none of them ! And 
 yet they were all his ! His to take and keep, not his to 
 refuse though ! In her quick petulant nature, a moment 
 ago on fire with hope, thwarted love and wounded van- 
 ity wrought. The schoolmaster that there is in all 
 men, to the despair of all girls and most women, was 
 now completely in possession of Archie. He had 
 passed a night of sermons ; a day of reflection ; he had 
 come wound up to do his duty; and the set mouth, 
 which in him only betrayed the effort of his will, to her 
 seemed the expression of an averted heart. It was the 
 same with his constrained voice and embarrassed utter- 
 ance; and if so — if it was all over — the pang of the 
 thought took away from her the power of thinking. 
 
 He stood before her some way off. " Kirstie, there's 
 been too much of this. We've seen too much of each 
 other." She looked up quickly and her eyes contracted. 
 
 145 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 '* There's no good ever comes of these secret meetings. 
 They're not frank, not honest truly, and I ought to have 
 seen it. People have begun to talk; and it's not right 
 of me. Do you see ?" 
 
 'M see somebody will have been talking to ye," she 
 said sullenly. 
 
 ** They have, more than one of them," replied Archie. 
 
 " And whae were they ? " she cried. ** And what kind 
 o' love do ye ca' that, that's ready to gang round like a 
 whirligig at folk talking? Do ye think they havena 
 talked to me ?" 
 
 "Have they indeed?" said Archie, with a quick 
 breath. *'That is what I feared. Who were they? 
 Who has dared " 
 
 Archie was on the point of losing his temper. 
 
 As a matter of fact, not any one had talked to Chris- 
 tina on the matter; and she strenuously repeated her 
 own first question in a panic of self-defence. 
 
 " Ah, well ! what does it matter ? " he said. ** They 
 were good folk that wished well to us, and the great 
 affair is that there are people talking. My dear girl, 
 we have to be wise. We must not wreck our lives at 
 the outset. They may be long and happy yet, and we 
 must see to it, Kirstie, like God's rational creatures and 
 not like fool children. There is one thing we must see 
 to before all. You're worth waiting for, Kirstie ! worth 
 waiting for a generation ; it would be enough reward. " — 
 And here he remembered the schoolmaster again, and 
 very unwisely took to following wisdom. " The first 
 thing that we must see to, is that there shall be no scan- 
 dal about for my father's sake. That would ruin all; 
 do ye no see that?" 
 
 146 
 
AT THE WEAVER'S STONE 
 
 Kirstie was a little pleased, there had been some show 
 of warmth of sentiment in what Archie had said last. 
 But the dull irritation still persisted in her bosom ; with 
 the aboriginal instinct, having suffered herself, she 
 wished to make Archie suffer. 
 
 And besides, there had come out the word she had 
 always feared to hear from his lips, the name of his fa- 
 ther. It is not to be supposed that, during so many 
 days with a love avowed between them, some refer- 
 ence had not been made to their conjoint future. It 
 had in fact been often touched upon, and from the first 
 had been the sore point. Kirstie had wilfully closed 
 the eye of thought; she would not argue even with 
 herself; gallant, desperate little heart, she had accepted 
 the command of that supreme attraction like the call of 
 fate and marched blindfold on her doom. But Archie, 
 with his masculine sense of responsibility, must reason; 
 he must dwell on some future good, when the present 
 good was all in all to Kirstie; he must talk — and talk 
 lamely, as necessity drove him — of what was to be. 
 Again and again he had touched on marriage; again 
 and again been driven back into indistinctness by a 
 memory of Lord Hermiston. And Kirstie had been 
 swift to understand and quick to choke down and 
 smother the understanding; swift to leap up in flame 
 at a mention of that hope, which spoke volumes to her 
 vanity and her love, that she might one day be Mrs. 
 Weir of Hermiston; swift, also, to recognise in his 
 stumbling or throttled utterance the death-knell of these 
 expectations, and constant, poor girl! in her large- 
 minded madness, to go on and to reck nothing of the 
 future. But these unfinished references, these blinks in 
 
 M7 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 which his heart spoke, and his memory and reason rose 
 up to silence it before the words were well uttered, 
 gave her unqualifiable agony. She was raised up and 
 dashed down again bleeding. The recurrence of the 
 subject forced her, for however short a time, to open 
 her eyes on what she did not wish to see; and it had 
 invariably ended in another disappointment. So now 
 again, at the mere wind of its coming, at the mere men- 
 tion of his father's name — who might seem indeed to 
 have accompanied them in their whole moorland court- 
 ship, an awful figure in a wig with an ironical and bit- 
 ter smile, present to guilty consciousness — she fled 
 from it head down. 
 
 "Ye havena told me yet," she said, **who was it 
 spoke ? " 
 
 ** Your aunt for one," said Archie. 
 
 ** Auntie Kirstie ? " she cried. *' And what do I care 
 for my Auntie Kirstie ? " 
 
 '* She cares a great deal for her niece," replied Archie, 
 in kind reproof. 
 
 *' Troth, and it's the first I've heard of it," retorted 
 the girl. 
 
 **The question here is not who it is, but what they 
 say, what they have noticed," pursued the lucid school- 
 master. **That is what we have to think of in self- 
 defence." 
 
 " Auntie Kirstie, indeed ! A bitter, thrawn auld maid 
 that's fomented trouble in the country before I was born, 
 and will be doing it still, I daur say, when I'm deid! 
 It's in her nature; it's as natural for her as it's for a 
 sheep to eat." 
 
 148 
 
AT THE WEAVER'S STONE 
 
 " Pardon me, Kirstie, she was not the only one," in- 
 terposed Archie. **I had two warnings, two sermons, 
 last night, both most kind and considerate. Had you 
 been there, I promise you you would have grat, my 
 dear! And they opened my eyes. I saw we were go- 
 ing a wrong way." 
 
 " Who was the other one ?" Kirstie demanded. 
 
 By this time Archie was in the condition of a hunted 
 beast. He had come, braced and resolute; he was to 
 trace out a line of conduct for the pair of them in a few 
 cold, convincing sentences; he had now been there 
 some time, and he was still staggering round the out- 
 works and undergoing what he felt to be a savage 
 cross-examination. 
 
 **Mr. Frank! " she cried. ** What nex', I would like 
 token.?" 
 
 " He spoke most kindly and truly." 
 
 ''What like did he say?" 
 
 " I am not going to tell you; you have nothing to do 
 with that," cried Archie, startled to find he had ad- 
 mitted so much. 
 
 **0, 1 have naething to do with it!" she repeated, 
 springing to her feet. " A'body at Hermiston's free to 
 pass their opinions upon me, but I have naething to do 
 wi' it! Was this at prayers like ? Did ye ca' the grieve 
 into the consultation ? Little wonder if a'body's talk- 
 ing, when ye make a'body ye're confidants! But as 
 you say, Mr. Weir, — most kindly, most considerately, 
 most truly, I'm sure, — 1 have naething to do with it. 
 And I think I'll better be going. I'll be wishing you 
 good evening, Mr. Weir." And she made him a stately 
 
 149 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 curtsey, shaking as she did so from head to foot, with 
 the barren ecstasy of temper. 
 
 Poor Archie stood dumfounded. She had moved 
 some steps away from him before he recovered the gift 
 of articulate speech. 
 
 "Kirstie!" he cried. "O, Kirstie woman! " 
 
 There was in his voice a ring of appeal, a clang of 
 mere astonishment that showed the schoolmaster was 
 vanquished. 
 
 She turned round on him. ** What do ye Kirstie me 
 for?" she retorted. "What have ye to do wi' me? 
 Gang to your ain freends and deave them ! " 
 
 He could only repeat the appealing " Kirstie! " 
 
 " Kirstie, indeed! " cried the girl, her eyes blazing in 
 her white face. "My name is Miss Christina Elliott, I 
 would have ye to ken, and I daur ye to ca' me out of 
 it. If I canna get love, I'll have respect, Mr. Weir. I'm 
 come of decent people, and I'll have respect. What 
 have I done that ye should lightly me ? What have I 
 done? What have I done? O, what have I done?" 
 and her voice rose upon the third repetition. " I thocht 
 — I thocht — I thocht I was sae happy!" and the first 
 sob broke from her like the paroxysm of some mortal 
 sickness. 
 
 Archie ran to her. He took the poor child in his 
 arms, and she nestled to his breast as to a mother's, 
 and clasped him in hands that were strong like vices. 
 He felt her whole body shaken by the throes of distress, 
 and had pity upon her beyond speech. Pity, and at the 
 same time a bewildered fear of this explosive engine in 
 his arms, whose works he did not understand, and yet 
 had been tampering with. There arose from before 
 
 1 50 
 
AT THE WEAVER'S STONE 
 
 him the curtains of boyhood, and he saw for the first 
 time the ambiguous face of woman as she is. In vain 
 he looked back over the interview ; he saw not where 
 he had offended. It seemed unprovoked, a wilful con- 
 vulsion of brute nature. . . . 
 
EDITORIAL NOTE 
 
 With the words last printed, " a wilful convulsion of brute nature," 
 the romance of IVeir of Hermiston breaks off. They were dictated, 
 I believe, on the very morning of the writer's sudden seizure and death. 
 IVeir of Hermiston thus remains in the work of Stevenson what Edwin 
 Drood is in the work of Dickens or Denis Duval in that of Thackeray: 
 or rather it remains relatively more, for if each of those fragments holds 
 an honourable place among its author's writings, among Stevenson's 
 the fragment of IVeir holds certainly the highest. 
 
 Readers may be divided in opinion on the question whether they 
 would or they would not wish to hear more of the intended course of 
 the story and destinies of the characters. To some, silence may seem 
 best, and that the mind should be left to its own conjectures as to the 
 sequel^ with the help of such indications as the text affords. I confess 
 that this is the view which has my sympathy. But since others, and 
 those almost certainly a majority, are anxious to be told all they can, 
 and since editors and publishers join in the request, I can scarce do 
 otherwise than comply. The intended argument, then, so far as it 
 was known at the time of the writer's death to his step-daughter and 
 devoted amanuensis, Mrs. Strong, was nearly as follows: — 
 
 Archie persists in his good resolution of avoiding further conduct 
 compromising to young Kirstie's good name. Taking advantage of 
 the situation thus created, and of the girl's unhappiness and wounded 
 vanity, Frank Innes pursues his purpose of seduction; and Kirstie, 
 though still caring for Archie in her heart, allows herself to become 
 Frank's victim. Old Kirstie is the first to perceive something amiss 
 with her, and believing Archie to be the culprit, accuses him, thus 
 making him aware for the first time that mischief has happened. He 
 does not at once deny the charge, but seeks out and questions young 
 Kirstie, who confesses the truth to him; and he, still loving her, 
 promises to protect and defend her in her trouble. He then has an inter- 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 view with Frank Innes on the moor, which ends in a quarrel, and in 
 Archie killing Frank beside the Weaver's Stone. Meanwhile the Four 
 Black Brothers, having become aware of their sister's betrayal, are bent 
 on vengeance against Archie as her supposed seducer. They are about 
 to close in upon him with this purpose, when he is arrested by the of- 
 ficers of the law for the murder of Frank. He is tried before his own 
 father, the Lord Justice-Clerk, found guilty, and condemned to death. 
 Meanwhile the elder Kirstie, having discovered from the girl how mat- 
 ters really stand, informs her nephews of the truth : and they, in a 
 great revulsion of feeling in Archie's favour, determine on an action 
 after the ancient manner of their house. They gather a following, and 
 after a great fight break the prison where Archie lies confined, and res- 
 cue him. He and young Kirstie thereafter escape to America. But the 
 ordeal of taking part in the trial of his own son has been too much for 
 the Lord Justice-Clerk, who dies of the shock. " I do not know," 
 adds the amanuensis, " what becomes of old Kirstie, but that character 
 grew and strengthened so in the writing that I am sure he had some 
 dramatic destiny for her." 
 
 The plan of every imaginative work is subject, of course, to change 
 under the artist's hand as he carries it out; and not merely the char- 
 acter of the elder Kirstie, but other elements of the design no less, 
 might well have deviated from the lines originally traced. It seems 
 certain, however, that the next stage in the relations of Archie and the 
 younger Kirstie would have been as above foreshadowed; this con- 
 ception of the lover's unconventional chivalry and unshaken devotion 
 to his mistress after her fault is very characteristic of the author's mind. 
 The vengeance to be taken on the seducer beside the Weaver's Stone 
 is prepared for in the first words of the Introduction: while the situa- 
 tion and fate of the judge, confronting like a Brutus, but unable to sur- 
 vive, the duty of sending his own son to the gallows, seems clearly to 
 have been destined to furnish the climax and essential tragedy of the 
 tale. How this circumstance was to have been brought about within 
 the limits of legal usage and social possibility, seems hard to conjec- 
 ture; but it was a point to which the author had evidently given care- 
 fill consideration. Mrs. Strong says simply that the Lord Justice-Clerk, 
 like an old Roman, condemns his son to death; but I am assured on 
 the best legal authority of Scotland, that no judge, however powerful 
 
 «54 
 
EDITORIAL NOTE 
 
 either by character or office, could have insisted on presiding at the 
 trial of a near kinsman of his own. The Lord Justice-Clerk was head of 
 the criminal justiciary of the country; he might have insisted on his 
 right of being present on the bench when his son was tried; but he 
 would never have been allowed to preside or to pass sentence. Now 
 in a letter of Stevenson's to Mr, Baxter, of October 1892, I find him 
 asking for materials in terms which seem to indicate that he knew this 
 quite well: — "I wish Pitcairn's 'Criminal Trials,' quam primum. 
 Also an absolutely correct text of the Scots judiciary oath. Also, in 
 case Pitcairn does not come down late enough, I wish as full a report 
 as possible of a Scots murder trial between 1790- 1820. Understand, 
 the fullest possible. Is there any book which would guide me to the 
 following facts? The Justice-Clerk tries some people capitally on cir- 
 cuit. Certain evidence cropping up, the charge is transferred to the 
 Justice-Clerk's own son. Of course in the next trial the Justice-Clerk 
 is excluded, and the case is called before the Lord Justice-General. 
 Where would this trial have to be ? I fear in Edinburgh, which would 
 not suit my view. Could it be again at the circuit town?" The 
 point was referred to a quondam fellow-member with Stevenson of the 
 Edinburgh Speculative Society, Mr, Graham Murray, the present Solic- 
 itor-General for Scotland; whose reply was to the effect that there 
 would be no difficulty in making the new trial take place at the circuit 
 town: that it would have to be held there in spring or autumn, before 
 two Lords of Justiciary; and that the Lord Justice-General would have 
 nothing to do with it, this title being at the date in question only a 
 nominal one held by a layman (which is no longer the case). On this 
 Stevenson writes, " Graham Murray's note re the venue was highly 
 satisfactory, and did me all the good in the world," The terms of his 
 inquiry seem to imply that he intended other persons, before Archie, to 
 have fallen first under suspicion of the murder; and also — doubtless in 
 order to make the rescue by the Black Brothers possible — that he 
 wanted Archie to be imprisoned not in Edinburgh but in the circuit 
 town. But they do not show how he meant to get over the main diffi- 
 culty, which at the same time he fully recognises. Can it have been 
 that Lord Hermiston's part was to have been limited to presiding at the 
 first trial, where the evidence incriminating Archie was unexpectedly 
 brought forward, and to directing that the law should take its course ? 
 Whether the final escape and union of Archie and Christina would 
 
 ^55 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 have proved equally essential to the plot may perhaps to some readers 
 seem questionable. They may rather feel that a tragic destiny is fore- 
 shadowed from the beginning for all concerned, and is inherent in the 
 very conditions of the tale. But on this point, and other matters of 
 general criticism connected with it, I find an interesting discussion by 
 the author himself in his correspondence. Writing to Mr. J. M. Barrie, 
 under date November i, 1892, and criticising that author's famous story, 
 of The Little Minister, Stevenson says: — 
 
 " Your descriptions of your dealings with Lord Rintoul are fright- 
 fully unconscientious. . . . The Little Minister ought to have ended 
 badly; we all know it did, and we are infinitely grateful to you for the 
 grace and good feeling with which you have lied about it. If you had 
 told the truth, I for one could never have forgiven you. As you had 
 conceived and written the earlier parts, the truth about the end, though 
 indisputably true to fact, would have been a lie, or what is worse, a 
 discord in art. If you are going to make a book end badly, it must 
 end badly from the beginning. Now, your book began to end well. 
 You let yourself fall in love with, and fondle, and smile at your pup- 
 pets. Once you had done that, your honour was committed — at the 
 cost of truth to life you were bound to save them. It is the blot on 
 Richard Fever el for instance, that it begins to end well; and then tricks 
 you and ends ill. But in this case, there is worse behind, for the ill 
 ending does not inherently issue from the plot — the story had, in fact, 
 ended well after the great last interview between Richard and Lucy, 
 — and the blind, illogical bullet which smashes all has no more to do 
 between the boards than a fly has to do with a room into whose open 
 window it comes buzzing. It might have so happened; it needed not; 
 and unless needs must, we have no right to pain our readers. I have 
 had a heavy case of conscience of the same kind about my Brax- 
 field story. Braxfield — only his name is Hermiston — has a son who 
 is condemned to death; plainly there is a fine tempting fitness about 
 this — and 1 meant he was to hang. But on considering my minor 
 characters, 1 saw there were five people who would — in a sense, who 
 must— break prison and attempt his rescue. They are capable hardy 
 folks too, who might very well succeed. Why should they not then ? 
 Why should not young Hermiston escape clear out of the country ? and 
 be happy, if he could, with his — but soft! 1 will not betray my secret 
 nor my heroine. ..." 
 
 156 
 
EDITORIAL NOTE 
 
 To pass, now, from the question how the story would have ended to 
 the question how it originated and grew in the writer's mind. The 
 character of the hero, Weir of Hermiston, is avowedly suggested by 
 the historical personalty of Robert Macqueen, Lord Braxfield. This 
 famous judge has been for generations the subject of a hundred Edin- 
 burgh tales and anecdotes. Readers of Stevenson's essay on the Rae- 
 burn exhibition in yirginihus Puerisque, will remember how he is 
 fascinated by Raeburn's portrait of Braxfield, even as Lockhart had 
 been fascinated by a different portrait of the same worthy sixty years 
 before (see Teter^s Letters to His Kinsfolk); nor did his interest in the 
 character diminish in later life. 
 
 Again, the case of a judge involved by the exigencies of his office in 
 a strong conflict between public duty and private interest or affection, 
 was one which had always attracted and exercised Stevenson's imagi- 
 natiort In the days when he and Mr. Henley were collaborating with 
 a view to the stage, Mr. Henley once proposed a plot founded on the 
 story of Mr. justice Harbottle in Sheridan Le Fanu's In a Glass Darkly, 
 in which the wicked judge goes headlong per fas et nefas to his object 
 of getting the husband of his mistress hanged. Some time later 
 Stevenson and his wife together wrote a play called The Hanging Judge. 
 In this, the title character is tempted for the first time in his life to tam- 
 per with the course of justice, in order to shield his wife from persecu- 
 tion by a former husband who reappears after being supposed dead. 
 Bulwer's novel of Paul Clifford, with its final situation of the worldly- 
 minded judge, Sir William Brandon, learning that the highwayman 
 whom he is in the act of sentencing is his own son, and dying of the 
 knowledge, was also well known to Stevenson, and no doubt counted 
 for something in the suggestion of the present story. 
 
 Once more, the difficulties often attending the relation of father and 
 son in actual life had pressed heavily on Stevenson's mind and conscience 
 from the days of his youth, when in obeying the law of his own nature 
 he had been constrained to disappoint, distress, and for a time to be 
 much misunderstood by, a father whom he justly loved and admire i 
 with all his heart. Difficulties of this kind he had already handled in a 
 lighter vein once or twice in fiction — as for instance in the Story of a 
 Lie and in The Wrecker — before he grappled with them in the acute 
 and tragic phase in which they occur in the present story. 
 
 These three elements, then, the interest of the historical personality 
 
 »57 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 of Lord Braxfield, the problems and emotions arising from a violent 
 conflict between duty and nature in a judge, and the difficulties due to 
 incompatibility and misunderstanding between father and son, lie at 
 the foundations of the present story. To touch on minor matters, it is 
 perhaps worth notice, as Mr. Henley reminds me, that the name of 
 Weir had from of old a special significance for Stevenson's imagination, 
 from the traditional fame in Edinburgh of Major Weir, burned as a 
 warlock, together with his sister, under circumstances of peculiar atro- 
 city. Another name, that of the episodical personage of Mr. Torrance 
 the minister, is borrowed direct from life, as indeed are the whole figure 
 and its surroundings — kirkyard, kirk, and manse — down even to the 
 black thread mittens: witness the following passage from a letter of the 
 early seventies: — "I've been to church and am not depressed — a 
 great step. It was at that beautiful church [of Glencorse in the Pent- 
 lands, three miles from his father's country home at Swanston]. It is 
 a little cruciform place, with a steep slate roof The small kirkyard is 
 full of old gravestones; one of a Frenchman from Dunkerque, I suppose 
 he died prisoner in the military prison hard by. And one, the most 
 pathetic memorial I ever saw: a poor school-slate, in a wooden frame, 
 with the inscription cut into it evidently by the father's own hand. In 
 church, old Mr. Torrance preached, over eighty and a relic of times for- 
 gotten, with his black thread gloves and mild old face." A side hint 
 for a particular trait in the character of Mrs. Weir we can trace in some 
 family traditions concerning the writer's own grandmother, who is re- 
 ported to have valued piety much more than efficiency in her domestic 
 servants. The other women characters seem, so far as his friends know, 
 to have been pure creation, and especially that new and admirable in- 
 carnation of the eternal feminine in the elder Kirstie. The little that he 
 says about her himself is in a letter written a few days before his death 
 to Mr. Gosse. The allusions are to the various moods and attitudes of 
 people in regard to middle age, and are suggested by Mr. Gosse's 
 volume of poems, In Rmset and Silver. " It seems rather funny," he 
 writes, " that this matter should come up just now, as I am at present 
 engaged in treating a severe case of middle age in one of my stories, 
 The Justice-Clerk. The case is that of a woman, and I think I am 
 doing her justice. You will be interested, I believe, to see the difference 
 in our treatments. Seer eta Vitae [the title of one of Mr. Gosse's poems] 
 comes nearer to the case of my poor Kirstie." From the wonderful 
 
 158 
 
EDITORIAL NOTE 
 
 midnight scene between her and Archie, we may judge what we have 
 lost in those later scenes where she was to have taxed him with the 
 fault that was not his — to have presently learned his innocence from 
 the lips of his supposed victim — to have then vindicated him to her 
 kinsmen and fired them to the action of his rescue. The scene of the 
 prison-breaking here planned by Stevenson would have gained interest 
 (as will already have occurred to readers) from comparison with the two 
 famous precedents in Scott, the Porteous mob, and the breaking of 
 Portanferry Jail. 
 
 The best account of Stevenson's methods of imaginative work is in 
 the following sentences from a letter of his own to Mr. W. Craibe 
 Angus of Glasgow: — 'M am still a ' slow study,' and sit for a long 
 while silent on my eggs. Unconscious thought, there is the only 
 method: macerate your subject, let it boil slow, then take the lid off 
 and look in — and there your stuff is — good or bad." The several 
 elements above noted having been left to work for many years in his 
 mind, it was in the autumn of 1892 that he was moved to '* take the 
 lid off and look in," — under the influence, it would seem, of a special 
 and overmastering wave of that feeling for the romance of Scottish 
 scenery and character which was at all times so strong in him, and 
 which his exile did so much to intensify. I quote again from his letter 
 to Mr. Barrie on November i in that year: — " It is a singular thing 
 that I should live here in the South Seas under conditions so new and 
 so striking, and yet my imagination so continually inhabit the cold 
 old huddle of grey hills from which we come. I have finished David 
 Balfour, I have another book on the stocks, The Young Chevalier, 
 which is to be part in France and part in Scotland, and to deal with 
 Prince Charlie about the year 1749; and now what have I done but 
 begun a third, which is to be all moorland together, and is to have for 
 a centre-piece a figure that I think you will appreciate — that of the 
 immortal Braxfield. Braxfield himself is my grand premier — or since 
 you are so much involved in the British drama, let me say my heavy 
 lead." 
 
 Writing to me at the same date he makes the same announcement 
 more briefly, with a list of the characters and an indication of the scene 
 and date of the story. To Mr. Baxter he writes a month later, " I 
 have a novel on the stocks to be called The Justice-Clerk. It is pretty 
 Scotch; the grand premier is taken from Braxfield (O, by the by, 5end 
 
 159 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 me Cockbum's Memorials), and some of the story is, well, queer. The 
 heroine is seduced by one man, and finally disappears with the other 
 man who shot him. . . . Mind you, I expect The Justice-Clerk to 
 be my masterpiece. My Braxfield is already a thing of beauty and a 
 joy for ever, and so far as he has gone far my best character." From 
 the last extract it appears that he had already at this date drafted some 
 of the earlier chapters of the book. He also about the same time com- 
 posed the dedication to his wife, who found it pinned to her bed-cur- 
 tains one morning on awaking. It was always his habit to keep sev- 
 eral books in progress at the same time, turning from one to another 
 as the fancy took him, and finding rest in the change of labour; and 
 for many months after the date of this letter, first illness, — then a voy- 
 age to Auckland, — then work on the Ehh-Tide, on a new tale called 
 St. Ives, which was begun during an attack of influenza, and on his 
 projected book of family history, — prevented his making any contin- 
 uous progress with IVeir. In August 1893 he says he has been recast- 
 ing the beginning. A year later, still only the first four or five chapters 
 had been drafted. Then, in the last weeks of his life, he attacked the 
 task again, in a sudden heat of inspiration, and worked at it ardently 
 and without interruption until the end came. No wonder if during 
 those weeks he was sometimes aware of a tension of the spirit difficult 
 to sustain. " How can I keep this pitch ? " he is reported to have said 
 after finishing one of the chapters. To keep the pitch proved indeed 
 beyond his strength; and that frail organism, taxed so long and so un- 
 sparingly in obedience to his indomitable will, at last betrayed him in 
 mid effort. 
 
 There remains one more point to be mentioned, as to the speech and 
 manners of the Hanging Judge himself. That these are not a whit ex- 
 aggerated, in comparison with what is recorded of his historic proto- 
 type. Lord Braxfield, is certain. The locus classicus in regard to this 
 personage is in Lord Cockbum's Memorials of his Time. " Strong 
 built and dark, with rough eyebrows, powerful eyes, threatening lips, 
 and a low growling voice, he was like a formidable blacksmith. His 
 accent and dialect were exaggerated Scotch; his language, like his 
 thoughts, short, strong, and conclusive. Illiterate and without any 
 taste for any refined enjoyment, strength of understanding which gave 
 him power without cultivation, only encouraged him to a more con- 
 temptuous disdain of all natures less coarse than his own. It may be 
 
 160 
 
EDITORIAL NOTE 
 
 doubted if he was ever so much in his element as when tauntingly re- 
 pelling the last despairing claim of a wretched culprit, and sending 
 him to Botany Bay or the gallows with an insulting jest. Yet this 
 was not from cruelty, for which he was too strong and too jovial, but 
 from cherished coarseness." Readers, nevertheless, who are at all ac- 
 quainted with the social history of Scotland will hardly fail to have 
 made the observation that Braxfield's is an extreme case of eighteenth- 
 century manners, as he himself was an eighteenth-century personage 
 (he died in 1799 in his seventy-eighth year); and that for the date in 
 which the story is cast (18 14) such manners are somewhat of an an- 
 achronism. During the generation contemporary with the French 
 Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, — or to put it another way, the 
 generation that elapsed between the days when Scott roamed the 
 country as a High School and University student and those when he 
 settled in the fulness of fame and prosperity at Abbotsford, — or again 
 (the allusions will appeal to readers of the admirable Gait) during the 
 intervals between the first and the last provostry of Bailie Pawkie in 
 the borough of Gudetown, or between the earlier and the final minis- 
 trations of Mr. Balwhidder in the parish of Dalmailing, — during this 
 period a great softening had taken place in Scottish manners generally, 
 and in those of the Bar and Bench not least. " Since the death of 
 Lord Justice-Clerk Macqueen of Braxfield," says Lockhart, writing 
 about 1817, "the whole exterior of judicial deportment has been quite 
 altered." A similar criticism may probably hold good on the picture 
 of border life contained in the chapter concerning the Four Black 
 Brothers of Cauldstaneslap, viz., that it rather suggests the ways of an 
 earlier generation; nor have I any clew to the reasons which led 
 Stevenson to choose this particular date, in the year preceding Water- 
 loo, for a story which, in regard to some of its features at least, might 
 seem more naturally placed some twenty-five or thirty years before. 
 
 If the reader seeks, farther, to know whether the scenery of Hermis- 
 ton can be identified with any one special place familiar to the writer's 
 early experience, the answer, I think, must be in the negative. Rather 
 it is distilled from a number of different haunts and associations among 
 the moorlands of southern Scotland. In the dedication and in a letter 
 to me he indicates the Lammermuirs as the scene of his tragedy, and 
 Mrs. Stevenson (his mother) tells me that she thinks he was inspired by 
 recollections of a visit paid in boyhood to an uncle living at a remote 
 
 161 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 farmhouse in that district called Overshiels, in the parish of Stow. But 
 although he may have thought of the Lammermuirs in the first instance, 
 we have already found him drawing his description of the kirk and 
 manse from another haunt of his youth, namely, Glencorse in the 
 Pentlands. And passages in chapters v. and viii. point explicitly to a 
 third district, that is, the country bordering upon Upper Tweeddale 
 and the headwaters of the Clyde, With this country also holiday rides 
 and excursions from Peebles had made him familiar as a boy: and this 
 seems certainly the most natural scene of the story, if only from its 
 proximity to the proper home of the Elliotts, which of course is in the 
 heart of the Border, especially Teviotdale and Ettrick. Some of the 
 geographical names mentioned are clearly not meant to furnish literal 
 indications. The Spango, for instance, is a water running, 1 believe, 
 not into the Tweed, but into the Nith, and Crossmichael as the name 
 of a town is borrowed from Galloway. 
 
 But it is with the general and essential that the artist deals, and 
 questions of strict historical perspective or local definition are beside 
 the mark in considering his work. Nor will any reader expect, or be 
 grateful for, comment in this place on matters which are more properly 
 to the point — on the seizing and penetrating power of the author's 
 ripened art as exhibited in the foregoing pages, the wide range of char- 
 acter and emotion over which he sweeps with so assured a hand, his vital 
 poetry of vision and magic of presentment. Surely no son of Scotland 
 has died leaving with his last breath a worthier tribute to the land he 
 loved. 
 
 Sidney Colvw. 
 
 I63 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
 ae, one. 
 
 antinomian, one of a sect which 
 holds that under the Gospel 
 dispensation the moral law is 
 not obligatory. 
 
 Auld Homie, the Devil. 
 
 ballant, ballad. 
 
 bauchles, brogues, old shoes. 
 
 bees in their bonnet, fads. 
 
 birling, whirling. 
 
 black- a -vised, dark-complex- 
 ioned. 
 
 bonnet-laird, small landed pro- 
 prietor. 
 
 bool, ball. 
 
 brae, rising ground. 
 
 butt end, end of a cottage, 
 
 byre, cow-house. 
 
 ca', drive. 
 caller, fresh. 
 canna, cannot. 
 canny, careful, shrewd. 
 cantie, cheerful. 
 carline, an old woman. 
 chalmer, chamber. 
 claes, clothes. 
 clamjamfry, crowd. 
 clavers, idle talk. 
 cock-laird, a yeoman^ 
 
 collieshangie, turmoil, 
 crack, to converse. 
 cuddy, donkey. 
 cuist, cast. 
 cutty, slut. 
 
 daft, mad, frolicsome. 
 
 dander, to saunter. 
 
 danders, cinders. 
 
 daurna, dare not. 
 
 deave, to deafen. 
 
 demmy brokens, demi-broquins. 
 
 dirdum, vigour. 
 
 disjaskit, worn out, disreputable- 
 looking. 
 
 doer, law agent, 
 
 dour, hard. 
 
 drumlie, dark. 
 
 dunting, knocking. 
 
 dule-tree, the tree of lamenta- 
 tion, the hanging tree: dule is 
 also Scots for boundary, and it 
 may mean the boundary tree, 
 the tree on which the baron bung 
 interlopers. 
 
 dwaibly, infirm, rickety. 
 
 earrand, errand. 
 ettercap, vixen. 
 
 fechting, fighting. 
 
 163 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 feck, quantity, portion. 
 feckless, feehle, powerless. 
 fell, strong and fiery. 
 fey, unlike yourself, strange, as 
 
 persons are observed to he in 
 
 the hour of approaching death 
 
 or disaster. 
 fit, foot. 
 flyped, turned up, turned inside 
 
 out. 
 forgather, to fall in with. 
 fule, fool. 
 
 fijshionless, pithless, weak. 
 fyle, to soil, to defile. 
 fylement, obloquy, defilement. 
 
 gaed, went. 
 
 gey an', very. 
 
 gigot, leg of mutton. 
 
 girzie, lit. diminutive of Gri^el, 
 here a playful nickname. 
 
 glaur, mud. 
 
 glint, glance, sparkle. 
 
 gloaming, twilight. 
 
 glower, to scowl. 
 
 gobbets, small lumps. 
 
 gowden, golden. 
 
 gowsty, gusty. 
 
 grat, wept. 
 
 grieve, land-steward. 
 
 guddle, to catch fish with the 
 hands by groping under the 
 stones or banks. 
 
 guid, good. 
 
 gumption, common sense, Judg- 
 ment, 
 
 gurley, stormy, surly. 
 
 gyte, beside itself. 
 
 haddit, held. 
 
 hae, have, take. 
 
 hale, whole. 
 
 heels - ower - hurdle, heels over 
 head. 
 
 hinney, honey. 
 
 hirstle, to bustle. 
 
 hizzie, wench. 
 
 howl, hovel. 
 
 hunkered, crouched. 
 
 hypothec, lit. a term in Scots law 
 meaning the security given by a 
 tenant to a landlord, as furni- 
 ture, produce, etc. ; by metonymy 
 and colloquially, " the whole 
 structure," *' the whole af- 
 fair." 
 
 idleset, idleness. 
 
 infeftment, a term in Scots law 
 originally synonymous with in- 
 vestiture, 
 
 jeely-piece, a slice of bread and 
 jelly. 
 
 jennipers, juniper. 
 
 jo, sweetheart. 
 
 justifeed, executed, made the vic- 
 tim of justice. 
 
 jyle, jail. 
 
 kebbuck, cheese. 
 ken, to know. 
 kenspeckle, conspicuous, 
 kilted, tucked up. 
 kyte, belly. 
 
 laigh, low. 
 
 laird, landed proprietor, 
 
 lane, alone. 
 
 164 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
 lave, rest, remainder. 
 lown, lonely, still. 
 lynn, cataract. 
 
 macers, officers of the court [cf. 
 Guy Mannering, last chapter.] 
 
 maun, must. 
 
 menseful, of good manners. 
 
 mirk, dark. 
 
 misbegowk, deception^ disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 mools, mould, earth. 
 
 muckle, much, great, big. 
 
 my lane, by myself. 
 
 nowt, black cattle. 
 
 palmering, walking infirmly. 
 panel, in Scots law, the accused 
 
 person in a criminal action, the 
 
 prisoner. 
 peel, a fortified watch-tower. 
 plew-stilts, plough-handles. 
 policy, ornamental grounds of a 
 
 country mansion. 
 puddock, frog. 
 
 quean, wench. 
 
 riff-raff, rabble. 
 risping, grating. 
 rowt, to roar, to rant. 
 rowth, abundance. 
 rudas, haggard old woman. 
 runt, an old cow past breeding, 
 opprobriously, an old woman. 
 
 sab, sob. 
 
 sanguishes, sandwiches. 
 
 sasine, in Scots law, the act of 
 giving legal possession of feudal 
 property, or, colloquially, the 
 deed by which that possession is 
 proved. 
 
 sclamber, to scramble. 
 
 sculduddery, impropriety, gross- 
 ness. 
 
 session, the Court of Session, the 
 supreme court of Scotland. 
 
 shauchling, shuffling. 
 
 shoo, to chase gently. 
 
 siller, money. 
 
 sinsyne, since then. 
 
 skailing, dispersing. 
 
 skelp, slap. 
 
 skirling, screaming. 
 
 skreigh-o'-day, daybreak. 
 
 snash, abuse. 
 
 sneisty, supercilious. 
 
 sooth, to hum. 
 
 speir, to ask. 
 
 speldering, sprawling. 
 
 splairge, to splash. 
 
 spunk, spirit, fire. 
 
 steik, to shut. 
 
 sugar-bool, sugar-plum. 
 
 tawpie, a slow, foolish slut. 
 
 telling you, a good thing for you^ 
 
 thir, these. 
 
 thrawn, cross-grained. 
 
 toon, town. 
 
 two-names, local sobriquets in 
 
 addition to patronymic. 
 tyke, dog. 
 
 unchancy, unlucky. 
 
 165 
 
WEIR OF HERMISTON 
 
 unco, stranggf fixiraordinarjf, 
 
 very. 
 upsitten, imperiintnt, 
 vivers, visuals, 
 
 waling, choosing. 
 warrandise, toarrantf, 
 waur, xoorss 
 
 weird, destiny. 
 whammle, to upset. 
 whaup, curlew. 
 
 windlestrae, crested dog's-tail 
 grass. 
 
 yin, on$. 
 
 10$ 
 
THE PLAYS OF 
 W. E. HENLEY AND R. L STEVENSON 
 
Copyright, 1892, by 
 W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson 
 
 A II rights rtserved 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR 
 THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS AND EIGHT TABLEAUX 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 William Brodib, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master 
 
 Carpenter. 
 Old Brodie, the Deacon's Father. 
 William Lawson, Procurator- Fiscal, the Deacon's Uncle. 
 Andrew Ainslie, ) 
 
 Humphrey Moore, ? Robbers in the Deacon's gang. 
 George Smith, } 
 Captain Rivers, an English Highwayman. 
 Hunt, A Bow Street Runner. 
 A Doctor. 
 Walter Leslie. 
 
 Mary Brodie, the Deacon's Sister. 
 Jean Watt, the Deacon's Mistress. 
 
 Vagabonds, Officers of the Watch, Men-servants. 
 
 The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the 
 Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, begins at 
 eight p. m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday. 
 
 Note. — Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed 
 in square brackets, thus [ ]. 
 
SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX 
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 Tableau I The Double Life. 
 
 Tableau I! Hunt the Runner. 
 
 Tableau III Mother Clarke's. 
 
 ACT II. 
 Tableau IV. i Evil and Good. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Tableau V King's Evidence. 
 
 Tableau VI Unmasked. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 Tableau VII The Robbery. 
 
 ACT V. 
 Tableau VIII The Open Door. 
 
LONDON: PRINCE'S THEATRE 
 
 2d July 1884. 
 
 Deacon Brodie, Mr. E. J. Henley. 
 
 Walter Leslie, Mr. Charles Cartwrioht. 
 
 William Lawson, Mr, John Maclean. 
 
 Andrew Ainslie, , Mr. Fred. Desmond. 
 
 Humphrey Moore, Mr. Edmund Grace. 
 
 George Smith, Mr. Julian Cross. 
 
 Hunt, Mr. Hubert Akhurst. 
 
 Old Brodie, Mr-. A. Knight. 
 
 Captain Rivers, Mr. Brandon Thomas. 
 
 Mary Brodie, Miss Lizzie Williams. 
 
 Jean Watt, Miss Minnie Bell. 
 
 MONTREAL 
 
 26tb September 1887. 
 
 Deacon Brodie, Mr. E. J. Henley. 
 
 Walter Leslie, Mr. Graham Stewart. 
 
 William Lawson, Mr. Edmund Lyons. 
 
 Andrew Ainslie, Mr. Fred. Desmond. 
 
 Humphrey Moore, Mr. Edmund Grace. 
 
 George Smith, Mr. Horatio Saker. 
 
 Hunt, Mr. Henry Vernon. 
 
 Captain Rivers, Mr. Bruce Philips. 
 
 Mary Brodie, Miss Annie Robe. 
 
 Jean Watt, Miss Carrie Cootb. 
 
ACT I 
 
 TABLEAU I 
 The Double Life 
 
 The Stage represents a room in the Deacon^ s house, furnished partly 
 as a sitting-, partly as a bed-room, in the style of an easy burgess 
 of about 1 780. C, a door; L. C, a second and smaller door; R. C, 
 practicable window ; L., alcove, supposed to contain bed; at the 
 back, a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles, etc. 
 Mary Brodie at needlework; Old Brodie_, a paralytic, in wheeled 
 chair, at the fireside, L. 
 
 SCENE I 
 To these Leslie, C 
 
 Leslie. May I come in, Mary ? 
 
 Mary. Why not ? 
 
 Leslie. I scarce knew where to find you. 
 
 Mary. The dad and I must have a corner, must we 
 not ? So when my brother's friends are in the parlour 
 he allows us to sit in his room. Tis a great favour, I 
 can tell you; the place is sacred. 
 
 Leslie. Are you sure that ' ' sacred " is strong enough ? 
 
 Mary. You are satirical ! 
 
 Leslie. I ? And with regard to the Deacon ? Believe 
 '73 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 me, I am not so ill-advised. You have trained me well, 
 and I feel by him as solemnly as a true-born Brodie. 
 
 Mary. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean 
 to go any further ? We are a fighting race, we Brodies. 
 Oh, you may laugh, sir! But 'tis no child's play to jest 
 us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our Deacon's 
 chamber either. It was his father's before him: he 
 works in it by day and sleeps in it by night; and scarce 
 anything it contains but is the labour of his hands. Do 
 you see this table, Walter ? He made it while he was 
 yet a 'prentice. I remember how I used to sit and 
 watch him at his work. It would be grand, I thought, 
 to be able to do as he did, and handle edge-tools with- 
 out 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 cabi- 
 net yonder; that it was that proved him the first of 
 Edinburgh joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and 
 their head. And the father's chair, and the sister's 
 workbox, and the dear dead mother's footstool — what 
 are they all but proofs of the Deacon's skill, and tokens 
 of the Deacon's care for those about him ? 
 
 Leslie. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, 
 and 1 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 
 i74 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Procurator has not much thought just now for any- 
 thing but those mysterious burglaries 
 
 Mary. I know ! 
 
 Leslie. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and of- 
 ficial 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 
 jny heart. 1 hoped I should be welcome. 
 
 Mary. I suppose you mean to be unkind. 
 175 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 '11 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. 
 176 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Mary. What is it, daddie ? 
 
 Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon Brodie 
 — the first at school. 
 
 Leslie. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in 
 the same class? {To Mary.) But he seems to have 
 forgotten us. 
 
 Mary. O yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will 
 sit for hours as you see him, and never speak nor stir 
 but at the touch of Will's hand or the sound of Will's 
 name. 
 
 Leslie. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it 
 will be always like this. You will not let me speak to 
 the Deacon ? You are fast set upon speaking yourself? 
 I could be so eloquent, Mary — I would touch him. I 
 cannot tell you how I fear to trust my happiness to any 
 one else — even to you! 
 
 Mary. He must hear of my good fortune from none 
 but me. And besides, you do not understand. We 
 are not like familes, 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? 
 
 177 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Brodie {without y 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 be- 
 side 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 gof 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 absorb- 
 ing interest in thae robberies. 
 
 Leslie. Egad, Procurator, and so do I. 
 
 Broi5ie (with a quick look at Leslie). A dilettante in- 
 terest, 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 
 
 178 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 indescrib- 
 able, 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 Edin- 
 burgh 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 before me offeecially that the 
 limmers had made infraction, vt 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 unbe- 
 lieveable, it's awful, it's anti-christian ! 
 
 Mary. If you only knew them, uncle, what an ex- 
 ample 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 un- 
 rivalled workman. 
 
 Lawson. Ye're right, sir; ye're vera right, Mr. Leslie. 
 It had been deponed to me offeecially that no a trades- 
 man — no the Deacon here himsel' — could have made 
 
 179 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 bung- 
 lers. Why, I could do it better myself! 
 
 Leslie. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partner- 
 ship. 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 inno- 
 cence ? 
 
 Mary. You could do anything, you two! 
 
 Lawson. Ony way. 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 
 
 180 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 [Brodie. * * DafFin' and want o* wit " — you know the 
 rest. 
 
 Lawson. yidi, 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 my- 
 sel', 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-tem- 
 pered son. 
 
 Lawson. What the deevil ails ye at the match ? 'Od, 
 man, he has a nice bit divot o' Fife corn-land, I can tell 
 ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his cellar! But I 
 needna speak o' the Bordeaux; ye'll ken the smack o't 
 as weel's I do mysel' ; ony way it's grand wine. Tan- 
 turn 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, ony- 
 way. 
 
 Brodie. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Bro- 
 dies — you know our failings! [A bad temper and a 
 humour of privacy.] 
 
 i8i 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Lawson. Weel, I maun be about my business. Bui 
 I could tak' a doch-an-dorach, William ; superflua non 
 nocent, as we say; an extra dram hurts naebody, Mr. 
 Leslie. 
 
 Brodie {with bottle and glasses). Here's your old 
 friend, Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, 
 thank you, not any for me. You strong people have 
 the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you 
 know, I must always live a bit of a hermit's life. 
 
 Lawson. 'Od, man, that's fine; that's health o' mind 
 and body. Mr. Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, it's 
 harder to end than to begin wi' stuff like that. 
 
 SCENE III 
 To these, Smith and Jean, C 
 
 Smith. Is the king of the castle in, please ? 
 
 Lawson {aside). Lord's sake, it's Smith ! 
 
 Brodie {to Smith). I beg your pardon ? 
 
 Smith. 1 beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. 
 Brodie at home, sir ? 
 
 Brodie. What do 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 Lib- 
 berton's Wynd. It'll be for the rent ? 
 
 Jean. Just that, sir. 
 
 1 8a 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 horticul- 
 ture? Ha, it is! (At the mirror.) In that case 
 George's mother bids him bind his hair. (Kisses his 
 hand.) My dearest Duchess, — ( To Jean.) I say, Jean, 
 there's a good deal of difference between this sort of 
 thing and the way we does it in Libberton's Wynd. 
 
 Jean. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck ? 
 
 Smith. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on 
 this poor but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the 
 nobleman to cut the object of his flame before the giddy 
 throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old mouse- 
 trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours 
 like these. He didn't know you, Jean : he was afraid 
 to. Do you call that a man ? Try a man that is. 
 
 Jean. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o* 
 that sort of talk frae you. And what kind o' a man are 
 you to even yoursel' to the likes o' him ? He's a gentleman. 
 
 Smith. Ah, ain't he just! And don't he live up to it? 
 I say, Jean, feel of this chair. 
 
 Jean. My I look at yon bed ! 
 
 Smith. The carpet too ! Axminster, by the bones of 
 Oliver Cromwell ! 
 
 183 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Jean. What a expense! 
 
 Smith. Hey, brandy I 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! "J 
 
 Jean. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith. 
 
 Smith. What brings the man from stuff like this to 
 rotgut and spittoons at Mother Clarke's ; but ah, George, 
 you was born for a higher spear! And so was you, 
 Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't. (Seeing Old 
 Brodie for the first time.) Hullo! it's a man! 
 
 Jean. Thonder in the chair. ( They go to look at him, 
 their backs to the door,) 
 
 George. Is he alive ? 
 
 Jean. I think there's something wrong with him. 
 
 George. And how was you to-morrow, my valued 
 old gentleman, eh ? 
 
 Jean. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie. 
 
 Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon of his 
 trade. 
 
 Jean. He'll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C, 
 and stands looking on.) 
 
 Smith. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't ex- 
 pect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean ? (7b 
 Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the 
 world would have been more varigated. Mrs. Deakin 
 (to Jean), let me introduce you to your dear papa. 
 
 Jean. Think shame to yoursel' ! This is the Deacon's 
 house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and if 
 
 184 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 we are, it's the least we can do to behave dacent 
 [This is no the way ye'II 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 gen- 
 tleman ? 
 
 Smith. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friendship! 
 ... I say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the 
 toddle]. We shall be late for church. 
 
 Hunt. Lady, George? 
 
 Smith. It's a yes, it's a lady. Come along, Jean. 
 
 Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe ? [That was the 
 name, I think?] Won't Mrs. Deacon let me have a 
 queer at her phiz ? 
 
 Jean {unmuffling). I've naething to be ashamed of. 
 My name's Mistress Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wynd 
 heid; there's naething again me. 
 
 Hunt. No, to be sure, there ain't; and why clap on 
 185 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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. Pro- 
 curator-Fiscal.] 
 
 George {in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. 
 {Going with attempted swagger,) Well, ta-ta, Jerry. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 To these, C, Brodie and Lawson {greatcoat y 
 muffler y 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 {a&ide to Jean, as she passes with a curtesy). 
 How dare you be here ? {Aloud to Smith.) Wait you 
 here, my man. 
 
 Smith. If you please, sir. (Brodie ^o^ outt C.) 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Brodie, Smith 
 
 Brodie. What the devil brings you here! 
 Smith. Cowfound it, Deakin ! Not rusty ? 
 [Brodie. And not you only : Jean too! Are you mad ? 
 1 86 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 Go'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 ? [A lions ! 
 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 ex- 
 ercised his noble art all the way from here to London. 
 *' Stand and deliver, stap my vitals! "] And the north 
 road is no bad lay, Deakin. 
 
 Brodie. Flush ? 
 
 Smith {mimicking, "The graziers, split me! A 
 187 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 Go's own agent and corre- 
 spondent, 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 
 
 188 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 that, George, see to that; and you may count the Cap- 
 tain 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, 1 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 ig- 
 norant. Come, Will, sit you down, and ask me ques- 
 tions — 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 
 
 189 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 footrules, 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 1 
 You should have told me sooner, and I wouldn't have 
 worried you. Come along. 
 
 (She goes out, pushing chair.) 
 190 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 Brodie 
 
 {He closes, locks, and double-bolts both doors) 
 
 Brodie. Now for one of* the Deacon's headaches! 
 Rogues all, rogues all ! {Goes to clothes-press, and pro- 
 ceeds 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 Dea- 
 con 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 complex- 
 ion. Shall a man not have half 2i 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 ! AUons ! { 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 
 
 191 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 for me, I'm a man once more till morning. {Gets out 
 of the window.) 
 
 TABLEAU II 
 
 Hunt the Runner 
 
 The Scent represents the Procurator's Office 
 
 SCENE I 
 Lawson, Hunt 
 
 [Lawson {entering). Step your ways in, Officer. 
 {At wing.) Mr. Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife 
 that cam' in wi' me. Nae news ? 
 
 A VOICE without. Naething, sir. 
 
 Lawson {sitting.) Weel, Officer, and what can I do 
 for you ?] 
 
 Hunt. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English 
 warrant for the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, 
 alias Captain Starlight, now at large within your 
 jurisdiction. 
 
 Lawson. That'll be the highwayman ? 
 
 Hunt. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Cap- 
 tain's given me a hard hunt of it this time. I dropped 
 on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he was away 
 North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him 
 all along the York road, for he's a light hand on the 
 pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I missed him 
 at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for 
 as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, 
 and we made a race of it for the Border; but he'd a 
 better nag, and was best up in the road; so I had to 
 
 192 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 ac- 
 tive 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 aib- 
 lins 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 per sond. 
 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 [1 ain't a rich 
 man, and two hundred's two hundred. Thereby, sir], 
 I don't mind telling you I've had a bit of a worry at it 
 already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look 
 into a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock 
 always likes to be sure of his walk; so I got one of 
 your Scotch officers — him as was so polite as to show 
 me round to Mr. Brodie's — to give me full particulars 
 about the 'ouse, and the flash companions that use it. 
 In his list I drop on the names of two old lambs of my 
 own ; and I put it to you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, as a 
 gentleman as knows the world, if what's a black sheep 
 in London is likely or not to be keeping school in 
 Edinburgh ? 
 
 Lawson. Caelum non animum. A just observe. 
 193 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 with- 
 out 'em ! 
 
 Lawson. Ye're vera richt. Hunt. An active and a 
 watchful officer. I'll send her in till ye. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Hunt (solus) 
 
 Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One 
 burglary after another, and these Scotch blockheads 
 without a man to show for it. Jock runs east, and 
 Sawney cuts west; everything's at a deadlock; and 
 they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By 
 Jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South! 
 Well, I ve worn out a good deal of saddle leather over 
 Jemmy Rivers ; but here's for new breeches if you like. ] 
 Let's have another queer at the list. (Reads.) " Hum- 
 phrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty, thick-set, 
 dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no ap- 
 parent occupation." Badger's an old friend of mine. 
 "George Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jing- 
 ling Geordie; red-haired and curly, slight, flash; an old 
 thimble-rig; has been a stroller; suspected of smug- 
 
 194 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 gling; 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 com- 
 pany." 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! 
 
 •95 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 SCENE III 
 Hunt; to bim }EA}i 
 
 Hunt. Well, my dear, and how about your gentle- 
 man 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 po- 
 tatoes. 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 what- 
 ever. 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 
 
 196 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 open 'and and the 'appy 'art." And how much, my 
 dear— speaking as a family man — now, how much 
 might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of 
 a year? 
 
 Jean. What's your wull ? 
 
 Hunt. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I 
 should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. 
 Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.] What's about 
 the figure ? 
 
 Jean. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that. 
 
 Hunt. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; 
 but I don't know what it cost, and I don't know where 
 the blunt came from to pay for it. 
 
 Jean. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman. 
 
 Hunt. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the 
 worse for being artful yourself. But between friends 
 now, and speaking as a family man 
 
 Jean. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. {Curtsies and 
 goes out.) 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Hunt {solus) 
 
 Hunt. Ah! that's it, is it? **My fancy man's my 
 'ole delight," as we say in Bow Street. But which is 
 the fancy man? George the Dook, or William the 
 Deacon ? One or both ? {He winks solemnly.) Well, 
 Jerry, my boy, here's your work cut out for you; but 
 if you took one-nine-five for that ere little two hundred 
 you'd be a disgrace to the profession. 
 
 197 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 TABLEAU III 
 Mother Clarke's 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 The stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles^ 
 spittoons, etc.; sanded Jloor. A large table at hack, where Ainslie, 
 Hamilton, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front ^ 
 L. and R. smaller tables, at one of which are Brodie and Moore, 
 drinking. Mrs. Clarke and women serving. 
 
 Moore. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, 
 that's what you've got. 
 
 Brodie. Luck! Don't talk of luck to a man like me! 
 Why not say I've the devil's own judgment ? Men of 
 my stamp don't risk — they plan, Badger; they plan, 
 and leave chance to such cattle as you [and Jingling 
 Geordie. They make opportunities before they take 
 them]. 
 
 Moore. You're artful, ain't you ? 
 
 Brodie. Should I be here else? When I leave my 
 house I leave an alibi behind me. I'm ill — ill with a 
 jumping headache, and the fiend's own temper. I'm 
 sick in bed this minute, and they're all going about with 
 the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the 
 poor sick Deacon. [My bedroom door is barred and 
 bolted like the bank — you remember! — and all the 
 while the window's open, and the Deacon's over the 
 hills and far away. What do you think of me ?] 
 
 Moore. I've seen your sort before, I have. 
 
 Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie's 
 
 Moore. That was a nick above you. 
 198 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 Cracks- 
 men, 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 how- 
 ever 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 un- 
 picked, and that the lock of one whose claret you've 
 drunk, and who has babbled of woman across your 
 own mahogany — that lock, sir, were entirely sacred. 
 Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland ; sacred as King George 
 upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and 
 Bannockburn. 
 
 Moore. Oh, rot! I ain't a parson, I ain't; I never had 
 no college education. Business is business. That's wot's 
 the matter with me. 
 
 Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with 
 Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us all home poor men. 
 That was a nick above you. 
 
 Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that's my opinion 
 of him: muck. I'll mop the floor up with him any day, 
 if so be as you or any on 'em'll make it worth my 
 while. If not, muck! That's my motto. Wot I now 
 ses is, about that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos 1 right, I ses ? 
 or wos I wrong? That's wot's the matter with you. 
 
 199 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LhFE 
 
 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 sus- 
 pects 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 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 good, or I shall drop you. {He. rises, and walks back- 
 wards 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 inten- 
 tions!] 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 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 south- 
 ern 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 vom baiseles mains! {Bowing.)] 
 
 Hunt. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour 
 [is always a gentleman, and to tell you the honest 
 truth] 
 
 Brodie. Great heavens! answer in three words, and 
 be hanged to you ! What are you, and where are you 
 from ? 
 
 Hunt. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. 
 
 Brodie. Is it possible ? All my life long have I been 
 pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! 
 Embrace me, at a distance. [A patter-cove from Seven 
 Dials !] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare, at my 
 expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He's a 
 patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all this? 
 
 AiNSLiE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! {At back, and ris- 
 ing.) 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Players. Sit down, Ainslie. — Sit down, Andra. — 
 Ma revenge! 
 
 Ainslie. Na, na, I'm for canny goin*. {Coming for^ 
 ward with bottle.) Deacon, let's see your gless. 
 
 Brodie. Not an inch of it. 
 
 Moore. No rotten shirking. Deacon! 
 
 [Ainslie. I'm sayin*, man, let's see your gless. 
 
 Brodie. Go to the deuce !] 
 
 Ainslie. But I'm sayin' 
 
 Brodie. Haven't I to play to-night ? 
 
 Ainslie. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt ? 
 
 Brodie. Ay, I'll follow you there. A la reine de mes 
 amours! (Drinks.) What fiend put this in your way, 
 you hound ? You've filled me with raw stuff. By the 
 muckle deil! 
 
 Moore. Don't hit him, Deacon ; tell his mother. 
 
 Hunt {aside). Oho! 
 
 SCENE III 
 To these, Smith, Rivers 
 
 Smith. Where's my beloved .? Deakin, my beauty, 
 where are you ? Come to the arms of George, and let 
 him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers! Cap- 
 ting, 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 ac- 
 quaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me! 
 
 [Brodie. We don't often see England's heroes our 
 way, Captain, but when we do, we make them infer- 
 nally welcome. 
 
 305 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Rivers. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel 
 sentiment, stap my vitals!] 
 
 Brodie. Oh Captain ! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen 
 have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough 
 and ready at the best. There's nothing like your 
 Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer 
 France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. 
 
 That d d thing, the je ne sais quoi, too! Lard, 
 
 Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are 
 pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude 
 Duval!] 
 
 Rivers. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively 
 too much]. What will you sip ? Give it the i&anar of 
 a neam. 
 
 Brodie. By these most hanarable hands now, Cap- 
 tain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play 
 host with Lucifer himself: Here, Clarke, Mother Mid- 
 night! Down with you, Captain! {forcing him bolster- 
 omly into a chair.) I don't know if you can lie, but, 
 sink me! you shall sit. Drinking, etc., in dumb-show, 
 
 MooRE (aside to Smith). We've nobbled him, 
 Geordie! 
 
 Smith {aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence ! He's 
 taking it down like mother's milk. But there'll be wigs 
 on the green to-morrow, Badger! It'll be tuppence 
 and toddle with George Smith. 
 
 Moore. O muck! Who's afraid of him? {To Ains- 
 LIE.) Hang on, Slinkie. 
 
 Hunt {who is feigning drunkenness^ and has over' 
 beard; aside). By Jingo! 
 
 [Rivers. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir ? 
 
 Brodie. Thanks; I have all the vices. Captain. You 
 204 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 must send me some of your rappee. It is passatively 
 perfect] 
 
 Rivers. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the i^anar of a sip to 
 you. 
 
 Brodie. Topsy-turvy with the can! 
 
 Moore {aside to Smith). That made him wink. 
 
 Brodie. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! 
 Shall we dice — dice — dice.^ {Dumb-show between 
 them.) 
 
 AiNSLiE {aside to Moore). I'm sayin' ? 
 
 Moore. What's up now ? 
 
 Ainslie. I'm no to gie him the coggit dice ? 
 
 Moore. The square ones, rot you! Ain't he got to 
 lose every brass farden } 
 
 Ainslie. What'll like be my share ? 
 
 Moore. You mucking well leave that to me. 
 
 Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will 
 have me shake a Wbow 
 
 Brodie. Where are the bones, Ainslie.^ Where are 
 the dice, Lord George .^ (Ainslie gives the dice and 
 dice-box to Brodie ; and privately a second pair of dice. ) 
 Old Fortune's counters the bonnie money-catching, 
 money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! 
 Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, 
 and put your coins on me! 
 
 Smith. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep 
 cool. 
 
 Brodie. Cool's the word, Captain — a cool twenty 
 on the first .^ 
 
 Rivers. Done and done. (They play.) 
 
 Hunt {aside to Moore, a little drunk). Ain't that 
 'ere Scotch gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir? 
 
 205 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 liel 
 
 906 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Brodie. In your teeth. (Overturns table, and goes 
 for him. ) 
 
 Moore. Here, none o* that. (They bold him back. 
 Struggle.) 
 
 Smith. Hold on, Deacon! 
 
 Brodie. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch 
 him. (Stands weighing dice in his hand.) But as for 
 that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I'll cut his throat 
 between this dark and to-morrow's. To the bone. 
 (Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! 
 (Singing without. ) Ha ! what's that } 
 
 Ainslie. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy 
 Weaver's. And O Deacon, if ye're a Christian man 
 
 The Psalm without: — 
 
 " Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, 
 
 Should'st mark iniquity ? 
 But yet with Thee forgiveness is, 
 That feared Thou may'st be." 
 
 Brodie. I think I'll go. "My son the Deacon was 
 aye regular at kirk." If the old man could see his son, 
 
 the Deacon! I think I'll Ay, who shall stand .^ 
 
 There's the rub! And forgiveness, too? There's a 
 long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now 
 . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the 
 devil has me by the leg. '* My son, the Deacon . . . !" 
 Eh, God! but there's no fool like an old fool! (Becom- 
 ing conscious of the others.) Rogues ! 
 
 Smith. Take my arm, Deacon. 
 
 Brodie. Down, dog, down ! [Stay and be drunk with 
 207 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 your equals.] Gentlemen and ladies, I have already 
 cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the 
 pleasure of wishing you — a very — good evening. 
 (As he goes out, Hunt, who has been staggering about in 
 the crowd, falls on a settle.as about to sleep.) 
 
 Act-Drop. 
 
 ao8 
 
ACT II 
 
 TABLEAU IV 
 Evil and Good 
 
 The Stage represents the Deacon's workshop; benches, shavings, tools, 
 hoards, and so forth. Doors, C. on the street, and L. into the house, 
 IVithout, church hells; not a chime, hut a slow, broken tocsin. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Brodie (soltis). 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 cant- 
 ing, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! *'My son 
 the Deacon — Deacon of the Wrights! " My thoughts 
 sicken at it. [Oh, the Deacon, the Deacon! Where's 
 a hat for the Deacon ? where's a hat for the Deacon's 
 
 209 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 I 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 prosecution ?] 
 
 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 ains. 
 
 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. 
 
 210 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Brodie. [You don't know what is on my mind, 
 Jeannie, 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 an- 
 gered 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 gpt 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, downstairs, 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. 
 
 211 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 aye 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 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 ]E\}i,) 
 Eh Mistress Watt? And what'U have brocht you here? 
 
 Brodie {seated on bench). Something, uncle, she lost 
 last night, and she thinks that something she lost is 
 here, t^oild. 
 
 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, Mis- 
 
 212 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 tress Watt. But bairn or name, 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 (/o Brodie, returning C. from door). Mut- 
 ter 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 Liberton'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. 
 
 213 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 Cog- 
 nac? I'm . . . I'm sort o' shaken, William, I'm sort o' 
 shaken. Thank you, William! (Looking piteously at 
 glass.) Nunc est bib en dum. {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 hurdles. 
 
 214 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Keep the plainstanes side o' the gallows. Fia trita, 
 via tutdy 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, Dea- 
 con, 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' hea- 
 ven! 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 bonny 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 Dea- 
 con'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 — 1 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! 
 
 215 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 hon- 
 our tint! — sae be it, 1 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 
 ^^// the jointure . . . [potim 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.] 
 
 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 
 
 216 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 tatter- 
 demalions !] 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 ... 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, altho' 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 ? 
 
 317 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Mary. Why, Will, what is the matter ? 
 
 Brodie. I thought you had come to tell me some- 
 thing. 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 ? 1 am kind. I'm only ill and wor- 
 ried, can't you see? Whimpering? 1 knew it! Sit 
 down, you goose! Where do you women get your 
 tears ? 
 
 Mary. Why are you so cross with me ? Oh, 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 al- 
 ways 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 till 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 ? 
 
 3l8 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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! . . . 1 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 ex- 
 planation; 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 cour- 
 age 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. 
 
 219 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 com- 
 pass 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 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 ? 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 SCENE VII 
 Brodie, Hunt 
 
 Hunt {hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe r 
 
 Brodie. I am he, Mr. . 
 
 Hunt. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sii 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 par- 
 ties; and 1 needn't tell a gentleman of your experience 
 it's part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now], it's 
 come to my 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 pocketbook), 
 did you ever meet a certain George Smith } 
 
 Brodie. Thefellow they call Jingling Geordie? (Hunt 
 nods.) Yes. 
 
 221 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 gen- 
 tleman, 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 cockfights 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 drop- 
 ping 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. 
 
 322 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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, contem- 
 plates 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 {stiU quite discountenanced). About us ? Scis- 
 sors! And what did you tell him ? 
 
 223 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 bdW. 
 
 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 
 is to put up the Excise. 
 
 Smith. It's the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, 
 
 224 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 busi- 
 ness, 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 thunder- 
 ing 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 [1 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 1 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 your plants get cross, 
 you order us out of the ken? Muck! That's wot I 
 
 225 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 think of you. Muck! Don't you get coming the nob 
 over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or Til 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 fme-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 off 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. What 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 mat- 
 ter 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 hit- 
 ting a pal when he's down. 
 
 Moore. Muck! That's wot I think of you. 
 
 326 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 damna- 
 tion. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've 
 
 227 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 ter- 
 ror, 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 1 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, ptishing 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 
 I . . . O kiss me, Mary ! give me a kiss for my good news. 
 Mary. Good news, Will ? Is it changed ? 
 228 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Brodie. Changed ? Why, the world's a different col- 
 our! 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 be- 
 tween us that it shall not be fault of mine if this thing 
 fails ; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. 
 1 swear it by our father; I swear it by God's judgments. 
 
 Mary. I want no oaths. Will. 
 
 Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. 
 Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move 
 mountains. 
 
 Old Brodie. A wise son maketh — maketh 
 
 Brodie. A glad father? And does your son, the 
 Deacon, make you glad ? O heaven of heavens, if I 
 were a good man. 
 
 Act-Drop 
 229 
 
ACT III 
 
 TABLEAU V 
 King's Evidence 
 
 Tbe Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Jean, Smith, and Moore 
 
 ( They loiter in Z», and stand looking about as for some- 
 body not there. Smith is hat in hand /o 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 les- 
 sons 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 
 230 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 winks, and he'll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and 
 as respectable as a new Bible. 
 
 Moore. That's right enough; but I ain't agoing to 
 stand here all day for him. I'm for a drop of something 
 short, I am. You tell him I showed you that (showing 
 his doubled fist). That's wot's the matter with him. 
 {He lurches out, R.) 
 
 SCENE II 
 Smith and]EKHy to whom Hunt, and afterwards Moore 
 
 Smith {critically). No, Duchess, he has not good 
 manners. 
 
 Jean. Ay, he's an impident man. 
 
 Smith. So he is, Jean ; and for the matter of that he 
 ain't the only one. 
 
 Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o' your nonsense, 
 mind. 
 
 Smith. There's our old particular the Deacon, now. 
 Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman ? That's not 
 my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, 
 we should be married, and retire to our estates in the 
 country, shouldn't us ? and go to church and be happy, 
 like the nobility and gentry. 
 
 Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry me ? 
 
 Smith. Mean it ? What else has ever been the 'umble 
 petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, 
 and fellow-countryman .? I know the Deacon's your 
 man, and 1 know he's a cut above G. S. ; but he won't 
 last, Jean, and 1 shall. 
 
 Jean. Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him; wha could 
 help it ? 
 
 231 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 1 ain't a Scotchman born. 
 
 Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye even 
 for that; if ye would just let me be. 
 
 [Hunt (entering behind, aside). Are they thick ? 
 Anyhow, it's a second chance.] 
 
 Smith. But he won't last, Jean; and when he leaves 
 you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry ? 
 That's the kind of harticle that 1 present. 
 
 Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau /.). 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 1 call a picter of good for- 
 tune.] Ain't it strange 1 should have dropped across 
 you comfortable and promiscuous like this ? 
 
 Jean (stolidly). 1 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 
 232 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 yeVe 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 Caesar. One more of boyhood's dreams gone 
 pop. {Enter }Aqqke, L.) 
 
 Hunt {to both). Come, then, I'll take the pair, and 
 233 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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, 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, 
 
 234 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 if they knew this at the office!] Well, the market 
 price of that 'ere two hundred is a trifle on the decline 
 and fall. {Looking L.) Hullo! (Slapping his thigh). 
 Send me victorious! It's king's evidence on two legs. 
 {Advancing with great cordiality to meet Ainslie, who 
 enters L.) And so your name's Andrew Ainslie, is it? 
 As I was saying, you're the very party I was looking 
 for. Ain't it strange, now, that I should have dropped 
 across you comfortable and promiscuous like this ? 
 
 Ainslie. I dinna ken wha ye are, an' I'm ill for my bed. 
 
 Hunt. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little 
 chat with you; just a quiet little sociable wheeze. 
 Just about our friends, you know. About Badger 
 Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and 
 Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie. 
 
 Ainslie. They're nae friens o* mine's, mister. I ken 
 naething an' naebody. An' noo I'll get to my bed, 
 wulln't I ? 
 
 Hunt. We're going to have our little talk out first. 
 After that perhaps I'll let you go, and perhaps I won't. 
 It all depends on how we get along together. Now, 
 in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as 
 you find him, I'm all for peace and quietness myself. 
 That's my usual game, Andrew, but when I do make 
 a dust I'm considered by my friends to be rather a good 
 hand at it. So don't you tread upon the worm. 
 
 Ainslie. But I'm sayin' 
 
 Hunt. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall 
 do your pitch presently. I'm first on the ground, and 
 I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did you ever 
 hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow 
 Street Runner ? 
 
 ^35 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 AiNSLiE. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no. 
 
 Hunt. ''Aiblins ay and aiblins no." Very good in- 
 deed, 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. (AiN- 
 SLiE diveSy Hunt collars Mm.) No, you don't. Not 
 this time. Run away like that before we've finished 
 our little conversation ? You're a nice young man, 
 you are. Suppose we introduce our wrists into these 
 here darbies ? Now we shall get along cosier and 
 freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All 
 right! anything to oblige. 
 
 AiNSLiE {grovelling). It wasna me, it wasna me. It's 
 bad companions; I've been lost wi' bad companions 
 an' the drink. An' O mister, ye'll be a kind gentleman 
 to a puir lad, an' me sae weak, an' fair rotten wi' the 
 drink an' that. Ye've a bonnie kind heart, my dear, 
 dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. 
 I'm no fit to hang. They ca' me the Cannleworm! 
 An' I'll dae somethin' for ye, wulln't I ? An' ye'll can 
 hang the ithers ? 
 
 Hunt. I thought I hadn't mistook my man. Now, 
 you look here, Andrew Ainslie, you're a bad lot. I've 
 evidence to hang you fifty times over. But the Deacon 
 is my mark. Will you peach, or wont you.^ You 
 
 336 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 blow the gaff, and I'll pull you through. You don't, 
 and I'll scragg you as sure as my name's Jerry Hunt. 
 
 AiNSLiE. I'll dae onything. It's the hanging fleys 
 me. I'll dae onything, onything no to hang. 
 
 Hunt. Don't lie crawling there, but get up and an- 
 swer me like a man. Ain't this Deacon Brodie the fine 
 workman that's been doing all these tip-topping bur- 
 glaries ? 
 
 AiNSLiE. It's him, mister; it's him. That's the man. 
 Ye're in the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I'll can tak' ye 
 to his vera door. 
 
 Hunt. How do you know ? 
 
 AiNSLiE. I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'. It was him 
 an' Badger Moore, and Geordie Smith; an' they gart 
 me gang wi' them whether or no; I'm that weak, an' 
 whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. But I ken a', an' 
 I'll tell a'. And O kind gentleman, you'll speak to their 
 lordships for me, an' I'll no be hangit . . . I'll no be 
 hangit, wull I ? 
 
 Hunt. But you shared, didn't you ? I wonder what 
 share they thought you worth. How much did you 
 get for last night's performance down at Mother 
 Clarke's ? 
 
 Afnslie. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure's 
 deith it wadna be a penny mair. No but I askit mair: 
 1 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 
 
 237 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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'sitfor? 
 
 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 ofT, 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 
 238 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers and the Deacon in two days! 
 By jingo! (^He dances an instant gravely, whistling to 
 himself.) Jerry, that 'ere little two hundred of ours is 
 as safe as the bank. 
 
 TABLEAU VI 
 
 Unmasked 
 
 The Stage represents a room in Leslie's home. ^4 practicable window, 
 C, through which a hand 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 
 \ are perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter and I 
 are young. Oh, we can wait; we can trust each other. 
 
 Brodie {from behind). Leslie, do you think it safe to 
 keep this strong-box in your room ? 
 
 Leslie. It does not trouble me. 
 
 Brodie. 1 would not. Tis close to the window. 
 239 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 con- 
 tented. 
 
 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 de- 
 ceived 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 
 
 240 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 thiefs 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 Law- 
 son.) Sae ye've consented? 
 
 Brodie. As you see. 
 
 Lawson. Ye'll can pay it back ? 
 
 Brodie. I will. 
 
 Lawson. And how ? That's what Tm 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, 1 know. But you see, on the 
 very day when our engagement is announced, even 
 
 241 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 the best of men may be susceptible. You yourself 
 seem not quite pleased. 
 
 Lawson {with great irritation). I'm perfectly pleased. 
 I'm perfectly delighted. If I werena an auld man, I'd 
 be just beside mysel' wi' happiness. 
 
 Leslie. Well, I only fancied. 
 
 Lawson. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. 
 Fancy } Perfect trash and nonsense. Look at yersel'. 
 Ye look like a ghaist, ye're white-like, ye're black 
 aboot the een ; and do ye find me deavin* ye wi' fan- 
 cies ? 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, un- 
 der 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. 
 
 24a 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 can- 
 not tell. 
 
 Lawson. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking 
 truth ? 
 
 Leslie. Well ... of course I 
 
 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 ofifeecial! ... Eh man, I'm a* shakin' 
 . . . And sae ye thocht ye kennt him ? 
 
 Leslie. I did that. And what's more, I've sat every 
 night in case of his return. I promise you. Procurator, 
 he shall not slip me twice. Meanwhile I'm worried 
 and put out. You understand how such a fancy will 
 upset a man. I'm uneasy with my friends and on bad 
 terms with my own conscience. I keep watching, 
 spying, comparing, putting two and two together, 
 hunting for resemblances until my head goes round. 
 
 243 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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. 1 mean 
 him to come back; come back he shall; and Til 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 imprestabiky as we say: a thing impossible to 
 man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie, and 
 sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to 
 ye! (Without) Let sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye to 
 your bed. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Leslie 
 
 Leslie (calling). In good time, never fear! (He care- 
 fully 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 fiage 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 \ seen them ? And then, that single look of the 
 
 244 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 pro- 
 ceeds to force.) Ha! I knew he'd come. I was sure 
 of it. (He crouches near and nearer to the window, 
 keeping in the shade.) And I know you too. I swear 
 I know you. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Brodie, Leslie 
 
 Brodie enters by the window with assurance and 
 ease, closes it silently, and proceeds to traverse the 
 room. As he moves, Leslie leaps upon and grapples 
 him. 
 
 Leslie. Take off that mask! 
 Brodie. Hands off! 
 Leslie. Take off the mask! 
 245 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Brodie. Leave go, by God, leave go! 
 
 Leslie. Take it off I 
 
 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! Your'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 
 246 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 speak to me, do you reason with me, do you make ex- 
 cuses ? 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 oj 
 " IVanderin' 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 Adt.) 
 
 SCENE V 
 Brodie, Lawson, Leslie 
 
 Lawson. This is an unco' time to come to your door; 
 but eh, laddie, I couldna bear to think o* ye sittin' your 
 lane in the dark. 
 
 Leslie. It was very good of you. 
 
 Lawson. I'm no very fond of playing hidee in the 
 
 dark mysel'; and noo that I'm here 
 
 247 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Leslie. I will give you a light. {He lights the cart'- 
 dies. 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 re- 
 ward. (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 precog- 
 nitions; the 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 
 
 a48 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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' door ? 
 
 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 
 ^ight 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 suffei 
 
 349 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 . . . all suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering remnant 
 of what was once a man]. O God, that I can have 
 fallen to stand here as I do now. My friend lying to 
 save me from the gallows; my second father weeping 
 tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By 
 what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a 
 selfish dog, because I loved this woman. 
 
 Jean. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel! But come 
 near me nae mair, come near me nae mair, my man; 
 keep wi' your ain folks . . . your ain dacent folks. 
 
 Lawson. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang's 
 there's breath in William Lawson's body. 
 
 Leslie. You can do one thing still ... for Mary's 
 sake. You can save yourself; you must fly. 
 
 Brodie. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. 
 It cannot be before. Then I will fly; and O, as God 
 sees me, I will strive to make a new and a better life, 
 and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your tears 
 . . . your tears. And to be worthy of you too, Jean; 
 for I see now that the bandage has fallen from my eyes ; 
 I see myself, O how unworthy even of you. 
 
 Leslie. Why not to-night ? 
 
 Brodie. It cannot be before. There are many con- 
 siderations. 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. 
 250 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 There is a man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain 
 till he has done with me, the hue and cry will blaze 
 about the country; every outport will be shut; I shall 
 return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at 
 nothing. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 To these, Moore 
 
 MooRE. Are you coming ? 
 Brodie. I am coming. 
 
 Moore {appearing in the door). Do you want us all 
 to get thundering well scragged? 
 Brodie {going). There is my master. 
 
 Act-Drop 
 
 «5« 
 
ACT IV 
 
 TABLEAU VII 
 The Robbery 
 
 The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel's 
 Court. At the hack, L. C, an archway opening on the High Street. 
 The door of the Excise in wing, R. ; the opposite side of the stage is 
 lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc. Moonlight ; the Excise 
 Office casts a shadow over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour, 
 A round of the City Guard, with halberts, lanterns, etc., enters and 
 goes out again by the arch, after having examined the fastenings of 
 the great door and the lumber on the left. Cry without in the 
 High Street : " Ten by the bell, and a fine clear night." Then enter 
 cautiously by the arch, Smith and Moore^ with AmsLiB loaded 
 with tools. 
 
 SCENE I 
 Smith, Moore, Ainslie 
 
 Smith {entering first). Come on. Coast deaf. 
 
 Moore {after they have come to the front). Ain't he 
 turned up yet? 
 
 Smith {to Ainslie). Now Maggot I The fishing's 
 a going to begin. 
 
 Ainslie. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back's fair 
 broke. 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Moore. O muck! Hand out them pieces. 
 
 Smith. All right, Humptious! (To Awsue.) 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 centrebit. 
 
 Smith. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her I 
 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 pic- 
 ter of the sublime and beautiful; and all 1 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. 1 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. 
 
 253 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Moore. Muck I Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that 
 mucii 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 an- 
 swered,) 
 
 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. (Moorb 
 254 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 goes Up slowly.) Second bunch, George. I know the 
 lock. Steady with the glim. {At work.) No good. 
 Give me the centrebit. 
 
 Smith. Right. {Work continues. Ainslie drops 
 lantern.) 
 
 Brodie. Curse you ! ( Throttling and kicking him. ) 
 You shake, and you shake, and you can't even hold a 
 light for your betters. Hey } 
 
 Ainslie. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . 
 
 Smith. Now Ghost! (With lantern,) 
 
 Brodie. 'St, Moore! 
 
 MooRE. Wot's the row ? 
 
 Brodie. Take you the light. 
 
 Moore {to Ainslie). Wo' j' yer shakin* at ? {Kicks 
 him. ) 
 
 Brodie (/o Ainslie). Go you, and see if you're good 
 at keeping watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a 
 footfall pass, I'll break your back. (Ainslie retires.) 
 Steady with the light. (At work with centrebit.) Hand 
 up number four, George. (At work with picklock.) 
 That has it. 
 
 Smith. Well done, our side. 
 
 Brodie. Now the 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.) Voilci! 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 ? 
 
 2^^ - • 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Brodie. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. 
 (Enters office.) 
 Smith (following), Houp-1^! 
 
 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. En- 
 ter noiselessly through arch Hunt and Officers.) 
 
 Hunt. Birds caught ? 
 
 Ainslie. They're a' ben the house, mister. 
 
 Hunt. All three ? 
 
 Ainslie. The hale set, mister. 
 
 Brodie. Liar! 
 
 Hunt. Mum, lads, and follow me. (Exit, with bis men, 
 into office. Brodie seen with dagger.) 
 
 Hunt. In the King's name! ^ 
 
 Moore. Muck! I ,„,.., . ^ 
 
 Smith. Go it, Badger. \ (^^^^^«-) 
 
 Hunt. Take 'em alive, boys! J 
 
 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.) 
 256 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 
 
 357 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 the office. Pick it up; it's only a dead informer. Hand 
 tiiese two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, 
 with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compliments. Johnstone and 
 Syme, you come along with me. I'll bring the Deacon 
 round myself. 
 
 Act-Drop 
 
 afS 
 
ACT V 
 
 TABLEAU VIII 
 The Open Door 
 
 The Stage represents the Deacon's room, as in Tableau I. Fire light. 
 Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. Cries 
 without o/** 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 coun- 
 terpane is not turned down. 
 
 Mary. It is not true ; it cannot be true. 
 
 Doctor. My dear young lady, you must have mis- 
 understood your brother's language. 
 
 Mary. O no ; that I did not. That 1 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. 
 
 359 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 .... I 
 
 Mary. Ah ! Who is there ? Who are you ? 
 
 Jean. Is he no hame yet ? I'm aye waitin' on him. 
 
 Mary. Waiting for him ? Do you know the Deacon ? 
 You? 
 
 Jean. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it's life and death. 
 
 Mary. Death ... O my heart! 
 
 Jean. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I'm a puir 
 body, and no fit to be seen speakin' wi' the likes o* 
 you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon's sister, and ye 
 hae the Deacon's e'en, and for the love of the dear kind 
 Lord, let's in and hae a word wi' him ere it be ower 
 late. I'm bringin' siller. 
 
 Mary. Siller ? You ? For him ? O father, father, 
 if you could hear! What are you? What are you 
 • . . to him ? 
 
 a6o 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 can- 
 not help you if I would. He is not here; and I believed 
 he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is not — he is ... . 
 O, I think I shall lose my mind! 
 
 Jean. Ay, it's unco business. 
 
 Mary. His father is dead within there . . . dead, I 
 tell you . . . dead ! 
 
 Jean. It's mebbe just as weel. 
 
 Mary. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O 
 Walter, Walter! come back to me, or I shall die. (Leslie 
 enters, C.) 
 
 Leslie. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you 
 this. (To Jean.) What — you? Is he not here? 
 
 Jean. I'm aye waitin' on him. 
 
 Leslie. What has become of him ? Is he mad ? 
 Where is he ? 
 
 Jean. The Lord A'michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I 
 maun find him; I maun find him. 
 
 SCENE III 
 Mary, Leslie 
 
 Mary. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean ? 
 
 Leslie. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; 
 you must lean on me . . . you must trust in me . • . 
 and be a brave girl till the end. 
 
 261 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 Mary. Who is she ? What does she want with him ? 
 And he . . . where is he ? Do you know that my 
 father is dead, and the Deacon not here ? Where has 
 he gone ? He may be dead, too. Father, brother . . . 
 O God, it is more than I can bear! 
 
 Leslie. Mary, my dear, dear girl . . . when will you 
 be my wife ? 
 
 Mary. O, do not speak . . . not speak ... of it 
 to-night. Not to-night! O not to-night! 
 
 Leslie. I know, I know, dear heart! And do you 
 think that I whom you have chosen, I whose whole life 
 is in your love — do you think that I would press you 
 now if there were not good cause ? 
 
 Mary. Good cause! Something has happened. 
 Something has happened .... to him! Walter . . . ! 
 Is he ... . dead } 
 
 Leslie. There are worse things in the world than 
 death. There is .... O Mary, he is your brother! 
 
 Mary. What? .... Dishonour! .... The Deacon! 
 . . . . My God! 
 
 Leslie. My wife, my wife! 
 
 Mary. No, no! Keep away from me. Don't touch 
 me. I'm not fit . . . not fit to be near you. What 
 has he done ? I am his sister. Tell me the worst. Tell 
 me the worst at once. 
 
 Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never 
 know. Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and 
 only loved you better; think that your true husband is 
 with you, and you are not to bear it alone. 
 
 Mary. My husband ? . . . Never. 
 
 Leslie. Mary . . . ! 
 
 Mary. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his 
 sister. I owe him a lifetime of happiness and love; I 
 
 262 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 owe him even you. And whatever his fault, however 
 ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother — my own bro- 
 ther — and my place is still with him. 
 
 Leslie. Your place is with me — is with your hus- 
 band. With me, with me; and for his sake most of 
 all. What can you do for him alone? how can you 
 help him alone .^ It wrings my heart to think how 
 little. But together is different. Together .... I 
 Join my strength, my will, my courage to your own, 
 and together we may save him. 
 
 Mary. All that is over. Once I was blessed among 
 women. I was my father's daughter, my brother loved 
 me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . . ! My fa- 
 ther is dead, my brother is shamed; and you .... 
 O how could I face the world, how could I endure my- 
 self, 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 can- 
 not bear it. 
 
 Leslie. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had 
 26^ 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 played my neck and lost it . . . that I were pushed 
 by the law to the last limits of ignominy and despair. 
 Whose love would sanctify my jail to me ? whose pity 
 would shine upon me in the dock ? whose prayers 
 would accompany me to the gallows ? Whose but 
 yours? Yours! . . . And you would entreat me — 
 me! — to do what you shrink from even in thought, 
 what you would die ere you attempted in deed! 
 
 Mary. Walter ... on my knees ... no more, no 
 more! 
 
 Leslie. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It 
 is I that must kneel ... I that must kneel to you. 
 
 Mary. Dearest! . . . Husband! You forgive him? 
 O, you forgive him ? 
 
 Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to 
 our father. Come. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 After a pause, Brodie, through the window 
 
 Brodie. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you've 
 been near it this time— near the rope, near the rope. 
 Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for. 
 They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the 
 wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven! 
 Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the 
 other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will 
 stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must 
 not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and 
 stirring at this time o' night. Ay, the good old room 
 in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead 
 rat, and all saved. {He lights the candles,) Your 
 
 264 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and you 
 snug and sick in your bed, and // 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 y 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 1 
 
 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 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 
 265 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 
 
 266 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 
 1 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 1 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 1 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 1 must make her understand . . . . ! 
 267 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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 I 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 I 
 
 Mary. Walter, Walter, come to me! 
 
 Brodie. Now you see that I must die ; now you see that 
 I stand upon the grave's tdgtj 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, Lesue, 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 ? 
 
 268 
 
DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 
 
 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. 
 269 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
2)eMcateJ> 
 
 WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT 
 TO 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 Bournemouth, 
 1st October, 1884 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 George Frederick Austin, called * Beau Austin/ . , . /Etat. 50 
 
 John Fenwick, of Allonby Shaw, , , " 26 
 
 Anthony Musgrave, Cornet in the Prince's Own, ... " 21 
 
 Menteith, the Beau's Valet, ** 55 
 
 A Royal Duke. (Dumb Show.) 
 
 Dorothy Musgrave, Anthony's Sister, " 25 
 
 Miss Evelina Foster, her Aunt " 45 
 
 Barbara Ridley, her Maid, " 20 
 
 Visitors to the Wells. 
 
 The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells, 
 The Action occupies a space of ten hours. 
 
 HAYMARKET THEATRE 
 Monday, November ^d, 1890 
 
 CAST 
 
 George Frederick Austin, Mr. Tree. 
 
 John Fenwick, Mr. Fred. Terry. 
 
 Anthony Musgrave, Mr. Edmund Maurice. 
 
 Menteith, Mr. Brookfield. 
 
 A Royal Duke, Mr. Robb Harwood. 
 
 Dorothy Musgrave, Mrs. Tree. 
 
 Miss Evelina Foster, Miss Rose Leclercq. 
 
 Barbara Ridley Miss Aylward. 
 
 Visitors to the Wells. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 Spoken by Mr. Tree in the character of 
 Beau Amtin 
 
 **To all and singular," as Dryden says, 
 
 We bring a fancy of those Georgian days. 
 
 Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume 
 
 Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom: 
 
 When speech was elegant and talk was fit, 
 
 For slang had not been canonised as wit; 
 
 When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall. 
 
 And Women — yes! — were ladies first of all; 
 
 When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness. 
 
 And man — though Man! — was not ashamed to dress. 
 
 A brave formality, a measured ease, 
 
 Were his — and her's — whose effort was to please. 
 
 And to excel in pleasing was to reign 
 
 And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain. 
 
 But then, as now — it may be, something more — 
 Woman and man were human to the core. 
 The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire 
 Burned with a plenitude of essential fire. 
 They too could risk, they also could rebel. 
 They could love wisely — they could love too welL 
 
 275 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife 
 
 Which is the very central fact of life, 
 
 They could — and did — engage it breath for breath, 
 
 They could — and did — get wounded unto death. 
 
 As at all times since time for us began 
 
 Woman was truly woman, man was man, 
 
 And joy and sorrow were as much at home 
 
 In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome. 
 
 Dead — dead and done with! Swift from shine to 
 
 shade 
 The roaring generations flit and fade. 
 To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest. 
 We come to proffer — be it worst or best — 
 A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time; 
 A hint of what it might have held sublime; 
 A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, 
 Of man still Man, and woman — Woman still! 
 
 376 
 
Musical Induction: '* Lascia ch'io pianga" {Rinaldo). Handel. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The Stage represents Miss Foster's apartments at the fVells. Doors, 
 L. and C. ; a window ^ L. C, looking on the street ; a table, R., 
 laid for breakfast. 
 
 SCENE I 
 Barbara ; to her Miss Foster 
 
 Barbara {out of window), Mr. Menteith! Mr. Men- 
 teith! Mr. Menteith! — Drat his old head! Will noth- 
 ing make him hear? — Mr. Menteith! 
 
 Miss Foster {entering). Barbara! this is incredible: 
 after all my lessons, to be leaning from the window, 
 and calling (for unless my ears deceived me, you were 
 positively calling!) into the street. 
 
 Barbara. Well, madam, just wait until you hear 
 who it was. I declare it was much more for Miss 
 Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a little 
 countrified, I had a good excuse. 
 
 Miss Foster. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it ? 
 
 Barbara. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. 
 Well, what do you think ? I was looking out of win- 
 dow at the barber's opposite 
 
 Miss Foster. Of which I entirely disapprove 
 
 277 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Barbara. And first there came out two of the most 
 beautiful the Royal livery, madam! 
 
 Miss Foster. Of course, of course: the Duke of York 
 arrived last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke's 
 footman ? 
 
 Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. 
 Then, who should come out — but you'll never guess! 
 
 Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try. 
 
 Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself! 
 
 Miss Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him. 
 
 Barbara. O madam, not the Beau's own gentleman ? 
 
 Miss Foster. Mr. Austin's servant. No ? Is it pos- 
 sible ? By that, George Austin must be here. 
 
 Barbara. No doubt of that, madam; they're never 
 far apart. He came out feeling his chin, madam, so; 
 and a packet of letters under his arm, so; and he had 
 the Beau's own walk to that degree you couldn't tell 
 his back from his master's. 
 
 Miss Foster. My dear Barbara, you too frequently 
 forget yourself. A young woman in your position 
 must beware of levity. 
 
 Barbara. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you 
 to make of me ? Look at the time and trouble dear 
 Miss Dorothy was always taking — she that trained up 
 everybody — and see what's come of it: Barbara Rid- 
 ley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don't do 
 with fashionable ways — I can't do with them; and 
 indeed. Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were 
 all back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy 
 again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, galloping 
 the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of 
 us as if she was our mother, bless her heart! 
 
 278 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Miss Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child ? Well, 
 now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely 
 seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has 
 not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. 
 Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months 
 of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be 
 brightened up. Has the mail come ? 
 
 Barbara. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. 
 Menteith put it clean out of my head. {IVitb letters.) 
 Four for you. Miss Evelina, two for me, and only one 
 for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected, 
 does she not? Six months ago, it was a different 
 story. 
 
 Miss Foster. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and I 
 had not remarked it. I must take her seriously to 
 task. No young lady in her position should neglect 
 her correspondence. {Opening a letter.) Here's from 
 that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his 
 arrival for to-day. 
 
 Barbara. O madam, will he come in his red coat ? 
 
 Miss Foster. I could not conceive him missing such 
 a chance. Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. An- 
 thony is unusually young. 
 
 Barbara. La, madam, he can't help that. 
 
 Miss Foster. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. An- 
 thony is a great concern to me. He was orphaned, 
 to be sure, at ten years old ; and ever since he has 
 been only as it were his sister's son. Dorothy did 
 everything for him : more indeed than I thought quite 
 ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. 
 See how she worked and slaved — yes, slaved! — for 
 him: teaching him herself, with what pains and pa- 
 
 279 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 tience she only could reveal, and learning that she 
 might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman, 
 of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: 
 not what I had hoped of Dorothy's brother; not what 
 I had dreamed of the heir of two families — Musgrave 
 and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin. 
 He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his 
 manners. {Opening another letter.) Why, Barbara, 
 Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married! 
 
 Barbara. La, madam, how nice! 
 
 Miss Foster. They are: As I'm a sinful woman. 
 And when will you be married, Barbara? and when 
 dear Dorothy ? I hate to see old maids a-making. 
 
 Barbara. La, Miss Evelina, there's no harm in an 
 old maid. 
 
 Miss Foster. You speak like a fool, child : sour 
 grapes are all very well but it's a woman's business to 
 be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, 
 and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten 
 thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a 
 most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest 
 sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and 
 all these to go positively a-begging! The men seem 
 stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came 
 out (and I was the dear girl's image!) I had more 
 swains at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in 
 
 O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl's own 
 
 fault. 
 
 Barbara. Why, madam, I did think it was a case 
 with Mr. Austin. 
 
 Miss Foster. With Mr. Austin ? why, how very 
 fustic! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, 
 
 280 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. He is 
 a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a pri- 
 vate gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit 
 and reputation. What woman could he marry ? Those 
 to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below 
 him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and 
 I understand that the very greatness of his success con- 
 demns him to remain unmarried. 
 
 Barbara. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for 
 him. 
 
 Miss Foster. Some day, child, you will know better 
 than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive him, 
 and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the tri- 
 umphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with 
 him: I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for worlds; 
 but it was soon after his famous rencounter with 
 Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink 
 and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most rav- 
 ishing creature! 
 
 Barbara. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most 
 beautiful gentleman still. 
 
 SCENE II 
 To these, Dorothy, L 
 
 Dorothy {entering). Good-morning, aunt! Is there 
 anything for me ? (She goes eagerly to table, and looks 
 ut letters. ) 
 
 Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 Dorothy {pith letter unopened). Nothing. 
 281 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Miss Foster. And what do you call that, my dear ? 
 (Sitting.) Is John Fen wick nobody ? 
 
 Dorothy {looking at letter.) From John ? O yes, so 
 it is. {Lays down letter unopened^ and sits to breakfast, 
 Barbara waiting. ) 
 
 Miss Foster {to Barbara, with plate). Thanks, child; 
 now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist 
 on your eating a good breakfast: I cannot away with 
 your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a-Monument 
 kind of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At Edenside you ate 
 and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you done 
 with your appetite ? 
 
 Dorothy. I don't know, aunt, I'm sure. 
 
 Miss Foster. Then consider, please, and recover it as 
 soon as you can: to a young lady in your position a 
 good appetite is an attraction — almost a virtue. Do 
 you know that your brother arrives this morning.? 
 
 Dorothy. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt 
 Evelina ? I am pleased that he should leave London 
 and its perils, if only for a day. 
 
 Miss Foster. My dear, there are moments when you 
 positively amaze me. (Barbara, some pdtd, if you 
 please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All women, of 
 course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard 
 with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is 
 exactly what he wanted. You brought him up sur- 
 prisingly well; I have always admired you for it; but 
 let us admit — as women of the world, my dear — it 
 was no upbringing for a man. You and that fine sol- 
 emn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that was posi- 
 tively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the 
 two of you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most 
 
 282 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 passive creature!) was so packed with principle and ad- 
 monition that I vow and declare he reminded me of 
 Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was 
 high time for him to be done with your apron-string, 
 my dear: he has all his wild oats to sow; and that is 
 an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By 
 the bye, have you heard the news ? The Duke of York 
 has done us a service for which I was unprepared. 
 (More tea, Barbara!) George Austin, bringing the 
 prince in his train, is with us once more. 
 
 Dorothy. I knew he was coming. 
 
 Miss Foster. You knew, child ? and did not tell I> 
 You are a public criminal. 
 
 Dorothy. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina,. 
 
 Miss Foster. O do not make-believe, j I am in love 
 with him myself, and have been any time since Nelson 
 and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since he went away 
 six months ago, you have been positively in the me- 
 grims. I shall date your loss of appetite from George 
 Austin's vanishing. No, my dear, our family require 
 entertainment: we must have wit about us, and beauty, 
 and the bel air. 
 
 Barbara. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my 
 place: but I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should 
 love to have him see my necklace on. 
 
 Dorothy. Necklace ? what necklace ? Did he give 
 you a necklace } 
 
 Barbara. Yes, indeed. Miss, that he did: the very 
 same day he drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. 
 You remember. Miss, I couldn't go. 
 
 Dorothy. I remember. 
 
 Miss Foster. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . 
 283 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Foster in the blood: the family gout, dears! . . . And 
 you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole day to 
 yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned. 
 
 Dorothy. I remember. {Rising. ) Is that the neck- 
 lace, Barbara? It does not suit you. Give it me. 
 
 Barbara. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world. 
 
 Dorothy. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank 
 you: you shall have my birthday pearls instead. 
 
 Miss Foster. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous 
 of the maid. Foster, Foster: always a Foster trick to 
 wear the willow in anger. 
 
 Dorothy. I do not think, madam, that I am of a 
 jealous habit. 
 
 Miss Foster. O, the personage is your excuse ! And 
 I can tell you, child, that when George Austin was 
 playing Florizel to the Duchess's Perdita, all the maids 
 in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy. It 
 was the ton, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander 
 was to resign from good society. 
 
 Dorothy. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to 
 hear you. What is he after all but just Beau Austin } 
 What has he done — with half a century of good 
 health, what has he done that is either memorable 
 or worthy? Diced and danced and set fashions; van- 
 quished in a drawing-room, fought for a word ; what 
 else? As if these were the meaning of life! Do not 
 make me think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, 
 we can rise to admire a better kind of man than Mr. 
 Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye, 
 dear aunt; and those that are — O ! I know not whether 
 I more hate or pity them. 
 
 Miss Foster. You will give me leave, my niece: 
 284 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 such talk is neither becoming in a young lady nor cred- 
 itable to your understanding. The world was made a 
 great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you 
 will do much better to ripen your opinions, and in the 
 meantime read your letter, which I perceive you have 
 not opened. {Dorothy opens and reads letter.) Bar- 
 bara, child, you should not listen at table. 
 
 Barbara. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place. 
 
 Miss Foster. Then do not do it again. 
 
 Dorothy. Poor John Fen wick! he coming here! 
 
 Miss Foster. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my 
 darling child, you give me pain. You never had but 
 one chance, let me tell you pointedly: and that was 
 John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my 
 vanity so blind me. This is not the way to marry. 
 
 Dorothy. Dear aunt, I shall never marry. 
 
 Miss Foster. A fiddlestick's end! every one must 
 marry. (Rising.) Are you for the Pantiles ? 
 
 Dorothy. Not to-day, dear. 
 
 Miss Foster. Well, well ! have your wish, Dolorosa. 
 Barbara, attend and dress me. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Dorothy 
 
 Dorothy. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor 
 blind aunt; and I — I could break her heart with a 
 word. That she should see nothing, know nothing 
 — there's where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear 
 . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad 
 girl, of what do I complain ? that this dear innocent 
 woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the 
 
 285 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, 
 were her dear eyes opened to the truth, what were 
 left me but death? — He, too — she must still be prais- 
 ing him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. 
 If 1 could die of my secret: if I could cease — but one 
 moment cease — this living lie; if I could sleep and 
 forget and be at rest! — Poor John ! {Reading the letter) 
 he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault he too must 
 suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John 
 Fenwickl Has he come back with the old story: with 
 what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by 
 Edenside ? Eden ? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. 
 
 my old north country, my old river — the river of 
 my innocence, the old country of my hopes — how 
 could I endure to look on you now } And how to 
 meet John ? — John, with the old love on his lips, 
 the old, honest, innocent, faithful heart! There was a 
 Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride with him, her 
 heart as light as his, her life as clear as the bright rivers 
 we forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so 
 with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now ? that Di- 
 ana ? she that was everything to John ? For O, I did 
 him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe 
 
 1 did him good: I made him honest and kind and a 
 true man; alas, and could not guide myself! And now, 
 how will he despise me! For he shall know; if I die, 
 he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true 
 with him. (She takes out the necklace and looks at it.) 
 That he should have bought me from my maid ! George, 
 George, that you should have stooped to this! Basely 
 as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish the 
 witness! {She treads the trinket under foot.) Break, 
 
 286 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 break like my heart, break like my hopes, perish like 
 my good name! 
 
 SCENE IV 
 To her, Fenwick, C 
 
 Fenwick {after a pause). Is this how you receive me, 
 Dorothy ? Am I not welcome ? — Shall I go then ? 
 
 Dorothy {running to him, with hands outstretched). 
 O no, John, not for me. {Turning, and pointing to the 
 necklace.) But you find me changed. 
 
 Fenwick {with a movement towards the necklace). 
 This } 
 
 Dorothy. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket — 
 broken. But the old Dorothy is dead. 
 
 Fenwick. Dead, dear ? Not to me. 
 
 Dorothy. Dead to you — dead to all men. 
 
 Fenwick. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is 
 not a meadow on Edenside but is dear to me for your 
 sake, not a cottage but recalls your goodness, not a 
 rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best 
 and brightest youth man ever had. You were my 
 teacher and my queen; I walked with you, I talked 
 with you, I rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I 
 saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear 
 Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy you bore with ; 
 you will never know with what romance you filled my 
 life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and 
 honour. At night I lay awake and worshipped you; 
 in my dreams I saw you, and you loved me; and you 
 remember, when we told each other stories — you have 
 not forgotten, dearest — that Princess Hawthorn that 
 
 287 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 was still the heroine of mine : who was she ? I was not 
 bold enough to tell, but she was you! You, my virgin 
 huntress, my Diana, my queen. 
 
 Dorothy. O silence, silence — pity! 
 
 Fenwick. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine 
 will I be silenced. I have begun; I must go on and 
 finish, and put fortune to the touch. It was from you 
 I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you 
 made me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. 
 Why else have I come here, the length of England, my 
 heart burning higher every mile, my very horse a clog 
 to me ? why, but to ask you for my wife ? Dorothy, 
 you will not deny me. 
 
 Dorothy. You have not asked me about this broken 
 trinket ? 
 
 Fenwick. Why should I ask ? I love you. 
 
 Dorothy. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. {She picks 
 up the necklace, and stands looking at it. Then, break- 
 ing down.) O John, John, it's long since I left home. 
 
 Fenwick. Too long, dear love. The very trees will 
 welcome you. 
 
 Dorothy. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The 
 old Dorothy is dead, God pardon herl 
 
 Fenwick. Dorothy, who is the man ? 
 
 Dorothy. O poor Dorothy ! O poor dead Dorothy ! 
 John, you found me breaking this: me, your Diana of 
 the Fells, the Diana of your old romance by Edenside. 
 Diana — O what a name for me! Do you see this trin- 
 ket } It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say ? my 
 whole life, for there is none to follow. John, you must 
 bear with me, you must help me. I have that to tell — 
 there is a secret — I have a secret, John — O, for God's 
 
 288 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 sake, understand. That Diana you revered — OJohn, 
 John, you must never speak of love to me again. 
 
 Fenwick. What do you say ? How dare you ? 
 
 Dorothy. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even 
 she, she whom you so believed in, she who so believed 
 in herself, came out into the world only to be broken. 
 I met, here at the Wells, a man — why should I tell you 
 his name ? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was 
 all his own; yet he was not content with that: he must 
 intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my maid with this. 
 {Throws the necklace on the table.) Did he love me? 
 Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he 
 betrayed, and he has left me. 
 
 Fenwick. Betrayed ? 
 
 Dorothy. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault 
 was mine that I forgot our innocent youth, and your 
 honest love. 
 
 Fenwick. Dorothy, O Dorothy! 
 
 Dorothy. Yours is the pain; but, OJohn, think it is 
 for your good. Think in England how many true maids 
 may be waiting for your love, how many that can bring 
 you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your chil- 
 dren, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has 
 proved all frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me 
 be patient. I have sinned. 
 
 Fenwick. By God, I'll have his blood. 
 
 Dorothy. Stop! I love him. {Between Fenwick and 
 door, C) 
 
 Fenwick. What do I care ? I loved you too. Little 
 he thought of that, little either of you thought of that. 
 His blood — I'll have his blood! 
 
 Dorothy. You shall never know his name. 
 289 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Fenwick. Know it ? Do you think I cannot guess ? 
 Do you think I had not heard he followed you? Do you 
 think I had not suffered — O suffered I George Austin 
 is the man. Dear shall he pay it! 
 
 Dorothy {at his feet). Pity me; spare me, spare your 
 Dorothy ! I love him — love him — love him ! 
 
 Fenwick. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my hap- 
 piness, and now you would rob me of my revenge. 
 
 Dorothy. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not 
 grant ? 
 
 Fenwick (raising her). No, Dorothy, you shall ask 
 nothing, nothing in vain from me. You ask his life ; I 
 give it you, as I would give you my soul; as I would 
 give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done; 
 you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end; not even 
 revenge. {He sits.) Dorothy, you see your work. 
 
 Dorothy. O God, forgive me. 
 
 Fenwick. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do. 
 
 Dorothy. As you do ? Do you forgive me, John ? 
 
 Fenwick. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my 
 life was done, I was wrong ; I have still a duty. It is 
 not in vain you taught me; I shall still prove to you 
 that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I am 
 no backward friend. Farewell. 
 
 290 
 
Musical Induction : '* The Lass of Richmond Hill," 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The Stage represents George Austin's dressing-room. Elaborate 
 toilet-table, R., with chair ; a cheval glass so arranged as to cor^ 
 respond with glass on table. Breakfast-table, L., front. Door, 
 L. The Beau is discovered at table, in dressing-gown, trifling with 
 correspondence. Menteith is frothing chocolate. 
 
 SCENE I 
 Austin, Menteith 
 
 Menteith. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the 
 •pleasure of meeting two of the Dook's gentlemen. . 
 
 Austin. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied 
 with his quarters .^ 
 
 Menteith. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I be- 
 lieve. 
 
 Austin. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say 
 I was as pleased with my journey, Menteith. This is 
 the first time I ever came to the Wells in another per- 
 son's carriage; Duke or not, it shall be the last, Men- 
 teith. 
 
 Menteith. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how 
 many times have we made that journey back and forth .^ 
 
 Austin. Enough to make us older than we look. 
 291 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear 
 well. 
 
 Austin. We wear well, Menteith. 
 
 Menteith. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is 
 of the company. 
 
 Austin. Is she so? Well, well! well, well! 
 
 Menteith. I've not seen the young lady myself, Mr. 
 George; but the barber tells me she's looking poorly. 
 
 Austin. Poorly ? 
 
 Menteith. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word. 
 
 Austin. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not 
 the first. 
 
 Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. {A hell, Menteith goes 
 out, and re-enters with card. ) 
 
 Austin {with card). Whom have we here ? Anthony 
 Musgrave ? 
 
 Menteith. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with 
 a look of the young lady, but not so gentlemanly. 
 
 Austin. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let 
 him in. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Austin, Menteith, Anthony 
 
 Austin. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. 
 Musgrave. You belong to my old corps, I think ? And 
 how does my good friend. Sir Frederick } I had his 
 line; but like all my old comrades, he thinks last about 
 himself, and gives me not of his news. 
 
 Anthony. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. 
 Your name is still remembered in the regiment. (Austin 
 horms.) The Colonel — he keeps his health, sir, con- 
 
 292 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 sidering his age (Austin bows again, and looks at Men- 
 teith) — tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow 
 in your time. 
 
 Austin. I believe I was — in my time. Menteith, 
 give Mr. Musgrave a dish of chocolate. So, sir, we see 
 you at the Wells. 
 
 Anthony. I have but just alighted. I had but one 
 thought, sir: to pay my respects to Mr. Austin. I have 
 not yet kissed my aunt and sister. 
 
 Austin. In my time — to which you refer — the ladies 
 had come first. 
 
 Anthony. The women ? I take you, sir. But then 
 you see, a man's relatives don't count. And besides, 
 Mr. Austin, between men of the world, I am fairly run- 
 ning away from the sex: I am positively in flight. 
 Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; she sent her 
 love to you. She's mad about me, I think. You never 
 saw a creature so fond. 
 
 Austin. Well, well, child! you are better here. In 
 my time — to which you have referred — I knew the 
 lady. Does she wear well ? 
 
 Anthony. I beg your pardon, sir! 
 
 Austin. No offence, child, no offence. She was a 
 very lively creature. But you neglect your chocolate, 
 1 see } 
 
 Anthony. We don't patronise it, Mr. Austin; we 
 haven't for some years : the service has quite changed 
 since your time. You'd be surprised. 
 
 Austin. Doubtless. I am. 
 
 Anthony. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the 
 Fifty-Second 
 
 Austin. The Hampshire Bosburys ? 
 
 293 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Anthony. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he 
 is related. 
 
 Austin. Or perhaps — I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a 
 cutter of coats. 1 have the vanity to believe I formed 
 his business. 
 
 Anthony. I — I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, 
 1 and this Jack Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam 
 — a very pretty light-weight, sir — drank seven bottles 
 of Burgundy to the three of us inside the eighty minutes. 
 Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me and the Bantam went 
 out and finished the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! 
 Tom Cribb was with us. He spoke of you, too, Tom 
 did: said you'd given him a wrinkle for his second 
 fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you're 
 not forgotten. 
 
 Austin (bows). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, 
 I had an esteem for Mr. Cribb. 
 
 Anthony. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said 
 to be over. 
 
 Austin. Menteith, you hear ? 
 
 Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. 
 . Anthony. The Colonel told me that you liked to 
 shake an elbow. Your big main, sir, with Lord Wens- 
 leydale, is often talked about. I hope I may have the 
 occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an 
 honour, I assure you. 
 
 Austin. But would your aunt, my very good friend, 
 approve ? 
 
 Anthony. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in 
 leading-strings ? 
 
 Austin. You forget, child: a family must hang to- 
 gether. When I was young — in my time — 1 was 
 
 294 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 alone; and what I did concerned myself. But a youth 
 who has — as I think you have — a family of ladies to 
 protect, must watch his honour, child, and preserve 
 his fortune. . . . You have no commands from Sir 
 Frederick ? 
 
 Anthony. None, sir, none. 
 
 Austin. Shall 1 find you this noon upon the Pantiles ? 
 . . . I shall be charmed. Commend me to your aunt 
 and your fair sister. Menteith ? 
 
 Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. (Shows Anthony out.) 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Austin, Menteith, returning 
 
 Austin. Was I ever like that, Menteith ? 
 
 Menteith. No, Mr. George, you was always a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Austin. Youth, my good fellow, youth. 
 
 Menteith. Quite so, Mr. George. 
 
 Austin. Well, Menteith, we cannot make nor mend. 
 We cannot play the jockey with Time. Age is the 
 test: of wine, Menteith, and men. 
 
 Menteith. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. 
 George, he-he! 
 
 Austin. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But 
 come: we lose our day. Help me off with this. (Men- 
 teith takes off Austin's dressing-gown ; Austin passes 
 R, to dressing-table, and takes up first cravat. ) 
 
 Austin. Will the hair do, Menteith } 
 
 Menteith. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. 
 (Austin proceeds to wind first cravat. A beU: exit 
 
 295 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Menteith. Austin drops first cravat in basket and takes 
 second.) 
 Austin {winding and singing) — 
 
 *' I'd crowns resign 
 To call her mine, 
 Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill! ** 
 
 {Second cravat a failure. Re-enter Menteith with card. ) 
 Fenwick ? of Allonby Shaw ? A good family, Menteith, 
 but I don't know the gentleman. {Lays down card, 
 and takes up third cravat.) Send him away with every 
 consideration. 
 
 Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George. {He goes out. 
 Third cravat a success. Re-enter Menteith.) He says, 
 Mr. George, that he has an errand from Miss Musgrave. 
 
 Austin {with waistcoat). Show him in, Menteith, at 
 once. {Singing and fitting waistcoat at glass) — 
 
 " I'd crowns resign 
 To call her mine, 
 Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill! " 
 
 SCENE IV 
 Austin, R. To him Menteith and Fenwick 
 
 Menteith {announcing). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George. 
 
 Austin. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly 
 always open. 
 
 Fenwick. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my 
 cousin, Richard Gaunt? 
 
 Austin. The county member? An old and good 
 friend. But you need not go so far afield: I know 
 your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of the 
 
 296 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal dis- 
 tance, cousins. 
 
 Fenwick. I desired, sir, from the nature of my busi- 
 ness, that you should recognise me for a gentleman. 
 
 Austin. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave. 
 
 Fenwick. My business is both grave and delicate. 
 
 Austin. Menteith, my good fellow. {£;v//Menteith.) 
 Mr. Fenwick, honour me so far as to be seated. ( They 
 sit.) I await your pleasure. 
 
 Fenwick. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, 
 to appeal to your good heart. 
 
 Austin. From Miss Musgrave ? 
 
 Fenwick. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here 
 upon my own authority. Upon me the consequence. 
 
 Austin. Proceed. 
 
 Fenwick. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the old- 
 est and dearest of my friends, is the lady whom for ten 
 years it has been my hope to make my wife. She has 
 shown me reason to discard that hope for another: that 
 I may call her Mrs. Austin. 
 
 Austin. In the best interests of the lady (rmng) I 
 question if you have been well inspired. You are 
 aware, sir, that from such interference there is but one 
 issue : to whom shall I address my friend ? 
 
 Fenwick. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself 
 upon your mercy. Strange as my errand is, it will 
 seem yet more strange to you that I came prepared to 
 accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and 
 not fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has 
 honoured me with her commands. These are my law, 
 and by these your life is sacred. 
 
 Austin. Then, sir {with his hand upon the bell), this 
 297 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 conversation becomes impossible. You have me at too 
 gross a disadvantage; and, as you are a gentleman and 
 respect another, I would suggest that you retire. 
 
 Fenwick. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of 
 mine. All my life long, with all the forces of my 
 nature, I have loved this lady. I came here to implore 
 her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had 
 been always! She was too noble to deceive me. She 
 told me what you know. I will not conceal that my 
 first mood was of anger: I would have killed you like 
 a dog. But, Mr. Austin — bear with me awhile — I, 
 on the threshold of my life, who have made no figure 
 in the world, nor ever shall now, who had but one 
 treasure, and have lost it — if I, abandoning revenge, 
 trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to com- 
 plete my misfortune — O Mr. Austin! you who have 
 lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the insolence of a 
 suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, 
 who are loved, and loved by such a woman — you 
 who excel me in every point of advantage, will you 
 suffer me to surpass you in generosity ? 
 
 Austin. You speak from the heart. (Sits.) What 
 do you want with me ? 
 
 Fenwick. Marry her. 
 
 Austin. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have 
 seen much of life, much of society, much of love. When 
 I was young, it was expected of a gentleman to be 
 ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a 
 man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous 
 with his equals, generous to his dependants, helpful 
 and trusty in friendship. But it was not asked of us to 
 be quixotic. If 1 had married every lady by whom it 
 
 298 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 is my fortune — not my merit — to have been distin- 
 guished, the Wells would scarce be spacious enough 
 for my establishment. You see, sir, that while I re- 
 spect your emotion, I am myself conducted by expe- 
 rience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a war- 
 fare ? has it not rules ? have not our fair antagonists 
 their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms ? and 
 is there not a touch of — pardon me the word ! of silli- 
 ness in one who, having fought, and having vanquished, 
 sounds a parley, and capitulates to his own prisoner.^ 
 Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been other, 
 'tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now! . . . You 
 know the world. 
 
 Fenwick. I know, sir, that the world contains much 
 cowardice. To find Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, 
 this surprises me. 
 
 Austin. Afraid, child ? 
 
 Fenwick. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know 
 if she be worthy ; and you answer me with — the world : 
 the world which has been at your feet: the world which 
 Mr. Austin kndws so well how to value and is so able 
 to rule. 
 
 Austin. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to 
 recognise that the world is a great power. It can 
 make; but it can break. 
 
 Fenwick. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of 
 friendship, and spoke warmly. Have you forgotten 
 Colonel Villiers ? 
 
 Austin. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what 
 I have suffered. 
 
 Fenwick. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, 
 for a random word you quarrelled; friendship was 
 
 299 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 weighed in vain against the world's code of honour; 
 you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from 
 others how he lay long in agony, and how you watched 
 and nursed him, and it was in your embrace he died. 
 In God's name have you forgotten that ? Was not this 
 sacrifice enough ? or must the world, once again, step 
 between Mr. Austin and his generous heart ? 
 
 Austin. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right: 
 I believe, upon my soul I believe, there is something in 
 what you say. 
 
 Fenwick. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the 
 whole difference betwixt good and evil. 
 
 Austin. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There 
 are many kinds of good: honour is a diamond cut in a 
 thousand facets, and with the true fire in each. Thus, 
 and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you and I 
 can still respect, we can still admire each other. 
 
 Fenwick. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is 
 the end of life but to excel in generosity ? To pity the 
 weak, to comfort the afflicted, to right where we have 
 wronged, to be brave in reparation — these noble ele- 
 ments you have; for of what besides is the fabric of 
 your dealing with Colonel Villiers ? That is man's 
 chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering woman — a woman 
 feeble, betrayed, unconsoled — you deny your clemency, 
 you refuse your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. 
 Nay, you are so disloyal to yourself that you can choose 
 to be ungenerous and unkind. Where, sir, is the hon- 
 our ? What facet of the diamond is that ? 
 
 Austin. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on. 
 
 Fenwick. O sir, not I — not I but yourself forgets : 
 George Austin forgets George Austin. A woman loved 
 
 300 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 by him, betrayed by him, abandoned by him — that 
 woman suffers; and a point of honour keeps him from 
 his place at her feet. She has played and lost, and the 
 world is with him if he deign to exact the stakes. Is 
 that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured 
 with her trust? Then, sir, how miserably was she 
 deceived! 
 
 Austin. Child — child 
 
 Fenwick. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow 
 me. O sir, will you not picture that dear lady's life ? 
 Her years how few, her error thus irreparable, what 
 henceforth can be her portion but remorse, the con- 
 sciousness of self-abasement, the shame of knowing 
 that her trust was ill-bestowed.? To think of it: this 
 was a queen among women; and this — this is George 
 Austin's work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me 
 prevail with you to feel that 'tis impossible. 
 
 Austin. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me ? 
 
 Fenwick. To be the man she loved : to be clement 
 where the world would have you triumph, to be of 
 equal generosity with the vanquished, to be worthy 
 of her sacrifice and of yourself. 
 
 Austin. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh 
 
 Fenwick {interrupting him). O sir, be just, be 
 just! 
 
 Austin. But it is merited, and I thank you for its 
 utterance. You tell me that the true victory comes 
 when the fight is won : that our foe is never so noble 
 nor so dangerous as when she is fallen, that the crown- 
 ing triumph is that we celebrate over our conquer- 
 ing selves. Sir, you are right. Kindness, ay kindness 
 after all. And with age, to become clement. Yes, 
 
 301 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 ambition first; then, the rounded vanity — victory still 
 novel; and last, as you say, the royal mood of the ma- 
 ture man: to abdicate for others. . . . Sir, you touched 
 me hard about my dead friend; still harder about my 
 living duty; and I am not so young but I can take a 
 lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my 
 wife. 
 
 Fenwick. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it. 
 
 Austin. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There 
 is nothing of Beau Austin here. 1 have simply, my 
 dear child, sate at the feet of Mr. Fenwick. 
 
 Fenwick. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough. 
 
 Austin. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the 
 judge: there are but two people in the world who 
 could have wrought this change: yourself and that 
 dear lady. {Touches bell.) Suffer me to dismiss you. 
 One instant of toilet, and I follow. Will you do me 
 the honour to go before, and announce my approach ? 
 {Enter Menteith. ) 
 
 Fenwick. Sir, if my admiration 
 
 Austin. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. 
 {Embraces him. Menteith shows him out.) 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Austin 
 
 Austin. Upon my word, I think the world is getting 
 better. We were none of us young men like that — in 
 my time, to quote my future brother. {He sits down 
 before the mirror.) Well, here ends Beau Austin. 
 Paris, Rome, Vienna, London — victor everywhere: 
 and now he must leave his bones in Tunbridge Wells. 
 
 30a 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 {Looks at his leg.) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good girl 
 after all, and will make me a good wife; none better. 
 The last — of how many? — ay, and the best! Walks 
 like Hebe. But still, here ends Beau Austin. Perhaps 
 it's time. Poor Dolly — was she looking poorly? She 
 shall have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we 
 grow no worse. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 Austin, Menteith 
 
 Austin. Menteith, I am going to be married. 
 
 Menteith. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to 
 hear it. Miss Musgrave is a most elegant lady. 
 
 Austin. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and who told you the 
 lady's name? 
 
 Menteith. Mr. George, you was always a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Austin. You mean I wasn't always ? Old boy, you 
 are in the right. This shall be a good change for both 
 you and me. We have lived too long like a brace of 
 truants: now is the time to draw about the fire. How 
 much is left of the old Hermitage? 
 
 Menteith. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and 
 not a bad cork in the bin. 
 
 Austin. And a mistress, Menteith, that's worthy of 
 that wine. 
 
 Menteith. Mr. George, sir, she's worthy of you. 
 
 Austin. Gad, I believe it. {Shakes hands with him.) 
 
 Menteith {breaking down). Mr. George, you've been 
 a damned good master to me, and I've been a damned 
 good servant to you; we've been proud of each other 
 
 ^03 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 from the first; but if you'll excuse my plainness, Mr. 
 George, I never liked you better than to-day. 
 
 Austin. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. 
 Get out the tongs, and curl me like a bridegroom. 
 {Sits before dressing-glass ; Menteith produces curling 
 irons and plies them, Austin sings) — 
 
 *' I'd crowns resign 
 To call her mine, 
 Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill I ** 
 
 Drop 
 
 m 
 
Musical Induction : the "Minuet" from *^ Don Giovanni.'* 
 
 ACT 111 
 
 The stage represents Miss Foster^s lodging as in Act L 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Dorothy, R., at tambour; Anthony, C, bestriding chair; 
 Miss Foster, L C. 
 
 Anthony. Yes, ma'am, I like my regiment: we are 
 all gentlemen, from old Fred downwards, and all 
 of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends, ex- 
 cept one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I'm done 
 with him. I assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corin- 
 thian to the last degree. I wouldn't shock you ladies 
 for the world 
 
 Miss Foster. Don't mind me, my dear; go on. 
 
 Anthony. Really, ma'am, you must pardon me: I 
 trust I understand what topics are to be avoided among 
 females — And before my sister, too! A girl of her 
 age! 
 
 Dorothy. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I'm old 
 enough to be your mother. 
 
 Anthony. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; 
 you are not a man of the world. But, as I was going 
 on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in the 
 service. 
 
 305 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Miss Foster. I am not surprised that it maintains its 
 old reputation. You know, my dear {to Dorothy), it 
 was George Austin's regiment. 
 
 Dorothy. Was it, aunt ? 
 
 Anthony. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a pre- 
 cious dust they make about him still — a parcel of old 
 frumps! That's why I went to see him. But he's 
 quite extinct: he couldn't be Corinthian if he tried. 
 
 Miss Foster. I am afraid that even at your age George 
 Austin held a very different position from the distin- 
 guished Anthony Musgrave. 
 
 Anthony. Come, ma'am, I take that unkindly. Of 
 course I know what you're at: of course the old put 
 cut no end of a dash with the Duchess. 
 
 Miss Foster. My dear child, I was thinking of no 
 such thing; that was immoral. 
 
 Anthony. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: 
 when he cut the Prince about Perdita Robinson. 
 
 Miss Foster. No, I had forgotten it. 
 
 Anthony. O, well, 1 know — that duel! But look 
 here. Aunt Evelina, I don't think you'd be much grati- 
 fied after all if I were to be broke for killing my com- 
 manding officer about a quarrel at cards. 
 
 Dorothy. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate 
 Mr. Austin. I trust you will set yourself a better 
 model. But you may choose a worse. With all his 
 faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern gen- 
 tleman: You would not ask a man to be braver, and 
 there are few so generous. I cannot bear to hear him 
 called in fault by one so young. Better judges, dear, 
 are better pleased. 
 
 Anthony. Hey-dey! what's this? 
 306 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Miss Foster. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. 
 You surprise me. 
 
 Dorothy. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you 
 have much to suffer from my caprice. {She goes out, L.) 
 
 SCENE II 
 Anthony, Miss Foster 
 
 Anthony. What is the meaning of all this, ma'am ? 
 I don't like it. 
 
 Miss Foster. Nothing, child, that I know. You 
 spoke of Mr. Austin, our dear friend, like a groom; 
 and she, like any lady of taste, took arms in his defence. 
 
 Anthony. No, ma'am, that won't do. I know the 
 sex. You mark my words, the girl has some con- 
 founded nonsense in her head, and wants looking after. 
 
 Miss Foster. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask 
 you to speak of Dorothy with greater respect. With 
 your permission, your sister and I will continue to di- 
 rect our own affairs. When we require the interfer- 
 ence of so young and confident a champion, you shall 
 know. (Curtsies, kisses her hand, and goes out, L.) 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Anthony 
 
 Anthony. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one 
 of the most uncivil old women in the world. Nine 
 weeks ago I came of age; and they still treat me like a 
 boy. I'm a recognised Corinthian, too: take my liquor 
 with old Fred, and go round with the Brummagem 
 
 Bantam and Jack Bosb . . . O damn Jack Bosbury. 
 
 307 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 If his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his un- 
 gentlemanly conduct. However, that's all one. What 
 I want is to make Aunt Evelina understand that I'm 
 not the man to be put down by an old maid who's 
 been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I've had 
 nothing but rebuffs all day. I'ts very remarkable. 
 There was that man Austin, to begin with. I'll be 
 hanged if I can stand him. I hear too much of him; 
 and if I can only get a good excuse to put him to the 
 door, I believe it would give Dorothy and all of us a 
 kind of a position. After all, he's not a man to visit in 
 the house of ladies : not when I'm away, at least. Noth- 
 ing in it of course; but is he a man whose visits I can 
 sanction ? 
 
 SCENE IV 
 Anthony, Barbara 
 
 Barbara. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I 
 was to show your room. 
 
 Anthony. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You're 
 a girl of sense, I know. 
 
 Barbara. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I'm nothing of 
 the kind. 
 
 Anthony. Come, come! that's not the tone I want: 
 I'm serious. Does this man Austin come much about 
 the house ? 
 
 Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don't 
 you ask Miss Foster ? 
 
 Anthony. Now I wish you to understand: I'm the 
 head of this family. It's my business to look after my 
 sister's reputation, and my aunt's too, begad! That's 
 
 308 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 what I'm here for: I'm their natural protector. And 
 what I want you, Barbara Ridley, to understand — 
 you whose fathers have served my fathers — is just 
 simply this: if you've any common gratitude, you're 
 bound to help me in the work. Now Barbara, you 
 know me, and you know my Aunt Evelina. She's a 
 good enough woman; I'm the first to say so. But 
 who is she to take care of a young girl ? She's igno- 
 rant of the world to that degree she believes in Beau 
 Austin! Now you and I, Bab, who are not so high 
 and dry, see through and through him ; we know that a 
 man like that is not fit company for any inexperienced girl. 
 
 Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, don't say that. {Weeping.) 
 
 Anthony. Hullo! what's wrong? 
 
 Barbara. Nothing that I know of O Mr. Anthony, 
 I don't think there can be anything. 
 
 Anthony. Think ? Don't think ? What's this ? 
 
 Barbara. O sir! I don't know, and yet I don't like 
 it. Here's my beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she 
 took it off my very neck, and gave me her birthday 
 pearls instead ; and I found it afterwards on the table, 
 ^11 smashed to pieces ; and all she wanted it for was to 
 take and break it. Why that? It frightens me, Mr. 
 Anthony, it frightens me. 
 
 Anthony {wttb necklace). This? What has this 
 trumpery to do with us ? 
 
 Barbara. He gave it me: that's why she broke it. 
 
 Anthony. He ? who ? 
 
 Barbara. Mr. Austin did ; and I do believe I should 
 not have taken it, Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, 
 upon my word of honour. He was always here : that 
 was six months ago; and indeed, indeed, I thought 
 
 309 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 they were to marry. How would I think else with a 
 born lady like Miss Dorothy ? 
 
 Anthony. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what's 
 this ? You don't mean to say that there was 
 
 Barbara. Here it is, as true as true: they were going 
 for a jaunt; and Miss Foster had her gout; and I was 
 to go with them; and he told me to make-believe I was 
 ill; and 1 did; and 1 stayed at home; and he gave me 
 that necklace; and they went away together; and, oh 
 dear! I wish I'd never been born. 
 
 Anthony. Together.? he and Dolly? Good Lord I 
 my sister! And since then ? : 
 
 Barbara. We haven't seen him from that day to this, 
 the wicked villain; and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn't so 
 much as written the poor dear a word. 
 
 Anthony. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad 
 business; this is a cruel bad business. Baby; cruel upon 
 me, cruel upon all of us; a family like mine. I'm a 
 young man, Barbara, to have this delicate affair to man- 
 age; but, thank God, I'm Musgrave to the bone. He 
 bribed a servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it's 
 mine now; dear bought, by George! He shall have it 
 in his teeth. Shot Colonel Villiers, did he ? we'll see 
 how he faces Anthony Musgrave. You're a good girl, 
 Barbara; so far you've served the family. You leave 
 this to me. And, hark ye, dry your eyes and hold 
 your tongue: I'll have no scandal raised by you. 
 
 Barbara. I do hope, sir, you won't use me against 
 Miss Dorothy. 
 
 Anthony. That's my affair; your business is to hold 
 your tongue. Miss Dorothy has made her bed and 
 must lie on it. Here's Jack Fenwick. You can go. 
 
 310 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 SCENE V 
 Anthony, Fenwick 
 
 Anthony. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, 
 my boy. Jack, you've given me many a thrashing, and 
 I deserved *em; and I'll not see you made a fool of 
 now. George Austin is a damned villain, and Dorothy 
 Musgrave is no girl for you to marry: God help me 
 that 1 should have to say it. 
 
 Fenwick. Good God, who told you? 
 
 Anthony. Ay, Jack ; it's hard on me. Jack. But you'll 
 stand my friend in spite of this, and you'll take my 
 message to the man won't you ? For it's got to come 
 to blood. Jack: there's no way out of that. And per- 
 haps your poor friend will fall. Jack; think of that: like 
 Villiers. And all for an unworthy sister. 
 
 Fenwick. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair 
 warning; see you take it: one word more against your 
 sister, and we quarrel. 
 
 Anthony. You fet it slip yourself. Jack: you know 
 yourself she's not a virtuous girl. 
 
 Fenwick. What do you know of virtue, whose whole 
 boast is to be vicious ? How dare you draw conclu- 
 sions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more comprehend 
 that angel's excellencies than she can stoop to believe 
 in your vices. And you talk morality ? Anthony, I'm a 
 man who has been somewhat roughly tried: take care. 
 
 Anthony. You don't seem able to grasp the situation. 
 Jack. It's very remarkable; I'm the girl's natural pro- 
 tector; and you should buckle-to and help, like a friend 
 of the family. And instead of that, begad! you turn on 
 me like all the rest. 
 
 3»» 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Fenwick. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows 
 at my heels ; he comes to offer marriage to your sister 
 — that is all you know, and all you shall know; and 
 if by any misplaced insolence of yours this marriage 
 should miscarry, you have to answer, not to Mr. Aus- 
 tin only, but to me. 
 
 Anthony. It's all a most discreditable business, and 
 1 don't see how you propose to better it by cutting my 
 throat. Of course if he's going to marry her, it's a dif- 
 ferent thing; but I don't believe he is, or he'd have asked 
 me. You think me a fool ? Well, see they marry, or 
 they'll find me a dangerous fool. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 To these, Austin, Barbara announcing 
 
 Barbara. Mr. Austin. {^She shows Austin in, and 
 retires.) 
 
 Austin. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, 
 Mr. Fenwick, that I have been not long delayed by my 
 devotion to the Graces. 
 
 Anthony. So, sir, I find you in my house 
 
 Austin. And charmed to meet you again. It went 
 against my conscience to separate so soon. Youth, Mr. 
 Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual refreshment. 
 
 Anthony. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some 
 errand ? 
 
 Austin. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sis- 
 ter. Beauty, as you know, comes before valour. 
 
 Anthony. In my own house, and about my own 
 sister, I presume I have the right to ask for something 
 more explicit. 
 
 31a 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Austin. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question ; 
 but it is one, as you were going on to observe, on 
 Avhich no gentleman insists. 
 
 Fenwick. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had 
 better go. 
 
 Anthony. I have asked a question. 
 
 Austin. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, 
 on repetition, might begin to grow distasteful. 
 
 Anthony. In my own house 
 
 Fenwick. For God's sake, Anthony! 
 
 Austin. In your aunt's house, young gentleman, I 
 -shall be careful to refrain from criticism. I am come 
 upon a visit to a lady: that visit I shall pay; when you 
 desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to resume 
 this singular conversation, select some fitter place. 
 Mr. Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present you to his 
 Royal Highness ? 
 
 Anthony. Why, sir, I believe you must have miscon- 
 -ceived me. I have no wish to offend : at least at present. 
 
 Austin. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard 
 amiss. I trust we shall be friends. 
 
 Fenwick. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. 
 {As Fenwick and Anthony go out, C, enter 
 Dorothy, L.) 
 
 SCENE VII 
 Austin, Dorothy 
 
 Dorothy. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to 
 •see me. 
 
 Austin. Madam, can you doubt of that desire f can 
 you question my sincerity ? 
 
 313 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Dorothy. Sir, between you and me these compli- 
 ments are worse than idle: they are unkind. Sure, 
 we are alone! 
 
 Austin. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet 
 you have condescended to receive this poor offender; 
 and having done so much, you will not refuse to give 
 him audience. 
 
 Dorothy. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain 
 of me. I listen. 
 
 Austin. My fair friend, I have sent myself — a poor 
 ambassador — to plead for your forgiveness. I have 
 been too long absent; too long, I would fain hope, 
 madam, for you; too long for my honour and my love. 
 I am no longer, madam, in my first youth ; but I may 
 say that I am not unknown. My fortune, originally 
 small, has not suffered from my husbandry. I have 
 excellent health, an excellent temper, and the purest 
 ardour of affection for your person. I found not on 
 my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss Musgrave, 
 will you honour me with your hand in marriage ? 
 
 Dorothy. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of mar- 
 riage, I should perhaps accept your offer. There was 
 a time, indeed, when it would have made me proudest 
 among women. I was the more deceived, and have 
 to thank you for a salutary lesson. You chose to count 
 me as a cipher in your rolls of conquest; for six months 
 you left me to my fate; and you come here to-day — 
 prompted, I doubt not, by an honourable impulse — to 
 offer this tardy reparation. No : it is too late. 
 
 Austin. Do you refuse ? 
 
 Dorothy. Yours is the blame: we are no longer 
 equal. You have robbed me of the right to marry any 
 
 314 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 one but you; and do you think me, then, so poor in 
 spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion ? 
 
 Austin. Dorothy, you loved me once. 
 
 Dorothy. Ay, you will never guess how much: 
 you will never live to understand how ignominious a 
 defeat that conquest was. I loved and trusted you: 
 I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humilia- 
 tion, when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities 
 proved false, and I beheld you the slave of the meanest 
 vanity — selfish, untrue, base! Think, sir, what a hum- 
 bling of my pride to have been thus deceived: to have 
 taken for my idol such a commonplace imposture a& 
 yourself; to have loved — yes, loved — such a shadow, 
 such a mockery of man. And now I am unworthy to 
 be the wife of any gentleman; and you — look me in 
 the face, Georg^ — are you worthy to be my husband ? 
 
 Austin. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; 
 I blundered away the most precious opportunity ; and 
 my regret will be lifelong. Do me the justice to accept 
 this full confession of my fault. I am here to-day to 
 own and to repair it. 
 
 Dorothy. Repair it ? Sir, you condescend too far. 
 
 Austin. I perceive with shame how grievously I 
 had misjudged you. But now, Dorothy, believe me, 
 my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as my 
 equal, but as one in all ways better than myself I 
 admire you, not in that trivial sense in which we men 
 are wont to speak of women, but as God's work: as a 
 wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart, 
 from whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. 
 Dorothy, in one word, I love you. 
 
 Dorothy. And what, sir, has wrought this trans- 
 315 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 formation ? You knew me of old, or thought you 
 knew me ? Is it in six months of selfish absence that 
 your mind has changed ? When did that change be- 
 gin ? A week ago? Sure, you would have written! 
 To-day ? Sir, if this offer be anything more than fresh 
 offence, I have a right to be enlightened. 
 
 Austin. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: 
 I respect, and I will not deceive you. But give me, 
 first of all, a moment for defence. There are few men 
 of my habits and position who would have done as I 
 have done: sate at the feet of a young boy, accepted 
 his lessons, gone upon his errand: fewer still, who 
 would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the whole for- 
 tune of the soul — love, gratitude, even respect. Yet 
 more than that! For conceive how I respect you, if I, 
 whose lifelong trade has been flattery, stand before you 
 and make the plain confession of a truth that must not 
 only lower me, but deeply wound yourself. 
 
 Dorothy. What means ? 
 
 Austin. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he 
 it was that sent me. 
 
 Dorothy. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That 
 was what he meant? Am I fallen so low? Am I 
 your common talk among men ? Did you dice for me ? 
 Did he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And 
 you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me down ? 
 shame heaping upon shame — to what end! oh, to 
 what end ? 
 
 Austin. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully 
 amiss. Sure, any lady in the land might well be proud 
 to be loved as you are loved, with such nobility as Mr. 
 Fenwick's, with such humility as mine. I came, in- 
 
 316 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 deed, in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, 
 dearest lady, with what honesty I speak: if I win you, 
 it shall be with the unblemished truth.) All that is 
 gone. Pity ? it is myself I pity. I offer you not love 
 
 — I am not worthy. I ask, I beseech of you : suffer 
 me to wait upon you like a servant, to serve you with 
 my rank, my name, the whole devotion of my life. 1 
 am a gentleman — ay, in spite of my fault — an upright 
 gentleman; and I swear to you that you shall order 
 your life and mine at your free will. Dorothy, at your 
 feet, in remorse, in respect, in love — O such love as I 
 have never felt, such love as I derided — I implore, I 
 conjure you to be mine! 
 
 Dorothy. Too late! too late. 
 
 Austin. No, no, not too late : not too late for peni- 
 tence, not too late for love. 
 
 Dorothy. Which do you propose? that I should 
 abuse your compassion, or reward your treachery ? 
 George Austin, I have been your mistress, and I will 
 never be your wife. 
 
 Austin. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: 
 there is worse still: your brother knows; the boy as 
 good as told me. Dorothy, this is scandal at the door 
 
 — O let that move you : for that, if not for my sake, for 
 that, if not for love, trust me, trust me again. 
 
 Dorothy. I am so much the more your victim : that 
 is all, and shall that change my heart ? The sin must 
 have its wages. This, too, was done long ago: when 
 you stooped to lie to me. The shame is still mine, the 
 fault still yours. 
 
 Austin. Child, child, you kill, me : you will not under- 
 stand. Can you not see ? the lad will force me to a duel. 
 
 3»7 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Dorothy. And you will kill him ? Shame after 
 shame, threat upon threat. Marry me, or you are 
 dishonoured; marry me, or your brother dies: and this 
 is man's honour! But my honour and my pride 
 are different. I will encounter all misfortune sooner 
 than degrade myself by an unfaithful marriage. How 
 should I kneel before the altar, and vow to reverence 
 as my husband you, you who deceived me as my 
 lover? 
 
 Austin. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have 
 deserved it. ' You will not take me for your husband; 
 why should I wonder ? You are right. I have indeed 
 filled your life with calamity: the wages, ay, the wages, 
 of my sin are heavy upon you. But I have one more 
 thing to ask of your pity; and O remember, child, who 
 it is that asks it: a man guilty in your sight, void of 
 excuse, but old, and very proud, and most unused to 
 supplication. Dorothy Musgrave, will you forgive 
 George Austin ? 
 
 Dorothy. O, George! 
 
 Austin. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more 
 than I deserve. I shall remember, often remember, how 
 and where it was bestowed upon me for the last time. 
 I thank you, Dorothy, from my heart; a heart, child, 
 that has been too long silent, but is not too old, I thank 
 Godl not yet too old to learn a lesson and to accept a 
 reproof I will not keep you longer: I will go — I am 
 so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to believe 
 in how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will 
 speak for me with more persuasion. If it be in my 
 power, you shall suffer no more through me: I will 
 avoid your brother; I will leave this place, I will leave 
 
 318 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured 
 with the neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. 
 X)orothy, farewell! 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 Dorothy; to whom, Anthony, L 
 
 Dorothy {on her knees, and reaching with her hands.) 
 George, George! (f/^/^r Anthony.) 
 
 Anthony. Ha! what are you crying for? 
 
 Dorothy. Nothing, dear! {Rising.) 
 
 Anthony. Is Austin going to marry you ? 
 
 Dorothy. I shall never marry. 
 
 Anthony. I thought as much. You should have 
 come to me. 
 
 Dorothy. I know, dear, I know; but there was noth- 
 ing to come about. 
 
 Anthony. It's a lie. You have disgraced the family. 
 You went to John Fenwick: see what he has made of 
 it! But I will have you righted: it shall be atoned in 
 the man's blood. 
 
 Dorothy. Anthony ! And if I had refused him ? 
 
 Anthony. You } refuse George Austin ? You never 
 had the chance. 
 
 Dorothy. I have refused him. 
 
 Anthony. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your 
 lover; but this concerns not you only: it strikes my 
 honour and my father's honour. 
 
 Dorothy. I have refused him — refused him, I tell 
 you — refused him. The blame is mine; are you so 
 mad and wicked that you will not see ? 
 
 Anthony. I see this : that man must die. 
 3^9 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Dorothy. He? never! You forget, you forget whon» 
 you defy; you run upon your death. 
 
 Anthony. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of 
 that before. It is too late now. 
 
 Dorothy. Anthony, if I beg you — Anthony, I have- 
 tried to be a good sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed 
 you when you were sick, fought for you, hoped for 
 you, loved you — think of it, think of the dear past, 
 think of our home and the happy winter nights, the 
 castles in the fire, the long shining future, the love that 
 was to forgive and suffer always — O you will spare, 
 you will spare me this. 
 
 Anthony. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will 
 do just what you taught me — my duty: that, and 
 nothing else. 
 
 Dorothy. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! 
 Heavens, shall I kill them — I — I, that love them, kill 
 them! Miserable, sinful girl! George, George, thank 
 God, you will be far away ! O go, George, go at once ! 
 
 Anthony. He goes, the coward ! Ay, is this more of 
 your contrivance ? Madam, you make me blush. But 
 to-day at least I know where I can find him. This af^ 
 ternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance attendance on 
 the Duke of York. Already he must be there; and there 
 he is at my mercy. 
 
 Dorothy. Thank God, you are deceived: he will not 
 fight. He promised me that; thank God I have his 
 promise for that. 
 
 Anthony. Promise! Do you see this? (producing 
 necklace) the thing he bribed your maid with ? I shall 
 dash it in his teeth before the Duke and before all Tun- 
 bridge. Promise, you poor fool ? what promise holds 
 
 320 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 against a blow ? Get to your knees and pray for him; 
 for, by the God above, if he has any blood in his body, 
 one of us shall die before to-night. {He goes out ) 
 
 Dorothy. Anthony, Anthony! . . . O my God, 
 George will kill him. 
 
 Music: ** Cbefardy" as the drop falls. 
 
 Drop. 
 
 i^» 
 
Musical Induction: "Gavotte;" ^^ Iphiginie en Aulide." 
 
 Gluck 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 The Stage represents the Pantiles : the alleys fronting the spectators 
 in parallel lines. y4t the hack, a stand of musicians, from which 
 the " Gavotte " is repeated on muted strings. The music continues 
 nearly through Scene I. Visitors walking to and fro beneath the 
 limes. A seat in front, L. 
 
 SCENE I 
 Miss Foster, Barbara, Menteith; Visitors 
 
 Miss Foster (entering; escorted by Menteith, and fol- 
 lowed by Barbara). And so, Menteith, here you are 
 once more. And vastly pleased I am to see you, my 
 good fellow, not only for your own sake, but because 
 you harbinger the Beau. (Sits, L.; Menteith standing 
 orver her. ) 
 
 Menteith. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure 
 to serve Mr. George for more than thirty years. This 
 as a privilege — a very great privilege. I have beheld 
 Slim in the first societies, moving among the first rank 
 of personages; and none, madam, none outshone him. 
 
 Barbara. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith 
 took me to the play, he talked so much of Mr. Austin 
 Ihat I couldn't hear a word of Mr. Kean. 
 
 322 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Miss Foster. Well, well, and very right. That was 
 the old school of service, Barbara, which you would do 
 well to imitate. This is a child, Menteith, that I am 
 trying to form. 
 
 Menteith. Quite so, madam. 
 
 Miss Foster. And are we soon to see our princely 
 guest, Menteith ? 
 
 Menteith. His Royal Highness, madam ? I believe I 
 may say quite so. Mr. George will receive our gallant 
 prince upon the Pantiles {looking at his watch) in, I 
 should say, a matter of twelve minutes from now. 
 Such, madam, is Mr. George's order of the day. 
 
 Barbara. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but 
 are we really to see one of His Majesty's own brothers ? 
 That will be pure ! O madam, this is better than Carlisle. 
 
 Miss Foster. The wood-note wild ; a loyal Cumbrian, 
 Menteith. 
 
 Menteith. Eh ? Quite so, madam. 
 
 Miss Foster. When she has seen as much of the 
 Royal Family as you, my good fellow, she will find it 
 vastly less entertaining. 
 
 Menteith. Yes, madam, indeed; in these distin- 
 guished circles, life is but a slavery. None of the best 
 set would relish Tunbridge without Mr. George; Tun- 
 bridge and Mr. George (if you'll excuse my plainness, 
 madam) are in a manner of speaking identified; and 
 indeed it was the Dook's desire alone that brought us 
 here. 
 
 Barbara. What ? the Duke ? O dear ! was it for that ? 
 
 Menteith. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George 
 would always be charmed to find himself {bowing) 
 among so many admired members of his own set. 
 
 323 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Miss Foster. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin 
 is as fortunate in his servant as his reputation. 
 
 Menteith. Quite so, madam. But let me observe 
 that the opportunities I have had of acquiring a know- 
 ledge of Mr. George's character have been positively 
 unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. George like his old 
 attendant. The goodness of that gentleman — but, 
 madam, you will soon be equally fortunate, if, as I un- 
 derstand, it is to be a match. 
 
 Miss Foster. I hope, Menteith, you are not taking 
 leave of your senses. Is it possible you mean my 
 niece ? 
 
 Menteith. Madam, I have the honour to congratu- 
 late you. I put a second curl in Mr. George's hair on 
 purpose. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 To these, Austin. Menteith falls back, and Austin 
 takes his place in front of Miss Foster, his attitude a 
 counterpart of Menteith's. 
 
 Austin. Madam, I hasten to present my homage. 
 
 Miss Foster. A truce to compliments! Menteith; 
 your charming fellow there, has set me positively crazy. 
 Dear George Austin, is it true ? can it be true ? 
 
 Austin. Madam, if he has been praising your niece 
 he has been well inspired. If he was speaking, as I 
 spoke an hour ago myself, I wish. Miss Foster, that he 
 had held his tongue. I have indeed ofifered myself to 
 Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most excellent reason, 
 has refused me. 
 
 Miss Foster. Is it possible ? why, my dear George 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Austin, . . . then I suppose it is John Fenwick after 
 
 all! 
 
 Austin. Not one of us is worthy. 
 
 Miss Foster. This is the most amazing circumstance. 
 You take my breath away. My niece refuse George 
 Austin ? why, I give you my word, I thought she had 
 adored you. A perfect scandal : it positively must not 
 get abroad. 
 
 Austin. Madam, for that young lady I have a singular 
 regard. Judge me as tenderly as you can, and set it 
 down, if you must, to an old man's vanity — for, Eve- 
 lina, we are no longer in the heyday of our youth — 
 judge me as you will : I should prefer to have it known. 
 
 Miss Foster. Can you ? George Austin, you ? My 
 youth was nothing; I was a failure; but for you.? no, 
 George, you never can, you never must be old. You 
 are the triumph of my generation, George, and of our 
 old friendship too. Think of my first dance and my 
 first partner. And to have this story — no, I could not 
 bear to have it told of you. 
 
 Austin. Madam, there are some ladies over whom it 
 is a boast to have prevailed ; there are others whom it 
 is a glory to have loved. And I am so vain, dear Eve- 
 lina, that even thus I am proud to link my name with 
 that of Dorothy Musgrave. 
 
 Miss Foster. George, you are changed. I would 
 not know you. 
 
 Austin. I scarce know myself. But pardon me, dear 
 friend (taking out his watch), in less than four minutes 
 our illustrious guest will descend amongst us; and I 
 observe Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have a pressing 
 
 business. Suffer me, dear Evelina ! 
 
 335 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 To these, Fenwick. Miss Foster remains seated, L 
 Austin goes R, to Fenwick, whom he salutes with great 
 respedt. 
 
 Austin. Mr. Fenwick, I have played and lost. That 
 noble lady, justly incensed at my misconduct, has con- 
 demned me. Under the burden of such a loss, may I 
 console myself with the esteem of Mr. Fenwick ? 
 
 Fenwick. She refused you? Pardon me, sir, but 
 was the fault not yours ? 
 
 Austin. Perhaps to my shame, I am no novice, Mr. 
 Fenwick; but I have never felt nor striven as to-day. 
 I went upon your errand ; but, you may trust me, sir, 
 before I had done I found it was my own. Until to- 
 day I never rightly valued her; sure, she is fit to be a 
 queen. I have a remorse here at my heart to which I 
 am a stranger. Oh ! that was a brave life, that was a 
 great heart that I have ruined. 
 
 Fenwick. Ay, sir, indeed. 
 
 Austin. But, sir, it is not to lament the irretriev- 
 able that I intrude myself upon your leisure. There is 
 something to be done, to save, at least to spare, that 
 lady. You did not fail to observe the brother ? 
 
 Fenwick. No, sir, he knows all; and being both in- 
 temperate and ignorant 
 
 Austin. Surely. I know. I have to ask you then 
 to find what friends you can among this company; 
 and if you have none, to make them. Let everybody 
 hear the news. Tell it (if I may offer the suggestion) 
 with humour: how Mr. Austin, somewhat upon the 
 
 326 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 wane, but still filled with sufficiency, gloriously pre- 
 sumed and was most ingloriously set down by a young 
 lady from the north : the lady's name a secret, which 
 you will permit to be divined. The laugh — the posi- 
 tion of the hero — will make it circulate; — you per- 
 ceive I am in earnest; — and in this way I believe our 
 young friend will find himself forestalled. 
 
 Fenwick. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to ask 
 so much of you; I will go further: were the positions 
 changed, I should fear to follow your example. 
 
 Austin. Child, child, you could not afford it. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 To these, the Royal Duke, C ; then, immediately, An- 
 thony, L. Fenwick crosses to Miss Foster, R, Austin 
 accosts the Duke, C. , in dumb show ; the muted strings 
 take up a new air, Mozart's ' * Anglaise ' ' / couples pass^ 
 tng under the limes, and forming a group behind Austin 
 and the Duke. Anthony in front, L., watches Austin, 
 who, as he turns from the Duke, sees him, and comes 
 forward with extended band. 
 
 Austin. Dear child, let me present you to his Royal 
 Highness. 
 
 Anthony {with necklace). Mr. Austin, do you recog- 
 nise the bribe you gave my sister's maid ? 
 
 Austin. Hush, sir, hush ! you forget the presence of 
 the Duke. 
 
 Anthony. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a scoun- 
 drel. 
 
 Austin. My child, you will regret these words : I re- 
 fuse your quarrel. 
 
 337 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Anthony. You do ? Take that. (He strikes Austin 
 on the mouth. At the moment of the blow ) 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 To these, Dorothy, L, U, E, Dorothy, unseen by 
 Austin, shrieks. Sensation. Mmic stops. Tableau. 
 
 Austin {recovering his composure). Your Royal 
 Highness, suffer me to excuse the disrespect of this 
 young gentleman. He has so much apology, and I 
 have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me to accept 
 this blow. But I must beg of your Highness, and, 
 gentlemen, all of you here present, to bear with me 
 while I will explain what is too capable of misconstruc- 
 tion. I am the rejected suitor of this young gentleman's 
 sister; of Miss Dorothy Musgrave: a lady whom I 
 singularly honour and esteem ; a word from whom (if 
 I could hope that word) would fill my life with happi- 
 ness. I was not worthy of that lady; when I was de- 
 feated in fair field, I presumed to make advances through 
 her maid. See in how laughable a manner fate repaid 
 me! The waiting-girl derided, the mistress denied, 
 and now comes in this very ardent champion who pub- 
 licly insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it 
 right, I am persuaded, all of you, that I should accept 
 my proper punishment in silence; you, my Lord Duke, 
 to pardon this young gentleman; and you, Mr. Mus- 
 grave, to spare me further provocation, which I am 
 determined to ignore. 
 
 Dorothy (rushing forward, falling at Avsrw*s knees, 
 and seizing his hand). George, George, it was for me. 
 My hero! take me! What you will! 
 
 328 
 
BEAU AUSTIN 
 
 Austin {in an agony). My dear creature, remember 
 that we are in public. {Raising her,) Your Royal 
 Highness, may I present you Mrs. George Frederick 
 Austin ? ( The Curtain falls on a few bars of the * * La^s 
 of Richmond Hill/') 
 
 V9 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
S>edtcateD 
 
 WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM 
 TO 
 
 ANDREW LANG 
 
 BY THE SURVIVORS OF THE 
 IVALRUS 
 
 Savannah, 
 This 27th day of September, 1884. 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 JOHN Gaunt, called 'Admiral Guinea/ once captain of the Slaver 
 
 y4retbusa. 
 Arethusa Gaunt, his Daughter. 
 
 David Pew, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the Arethusa. 
 Kit French, a Privateersman. 
 Mrs. Drake, Landlady of the Admiral Benbow Inn. 
 
 The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time is 
 about the year 1 760. The action occupies part of a day and night. 
 
 NoTB. — Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed 
 in square brackets, thus [ ]. 
 
ACT I 
 
 Tlje Stage represents a room in Admiral Guinea's bouse: fireplace, 
 arm-cbair, and table witb Bible, L, towards tbe front; door C, 
 witb window on eacb side, tbe window on tbe R., practicable; doors, 
 R. and L, back; corner cupboard, a brass-strapped sea-chest fixed 
 to the wall and floor, R.; cutlasses, telescopes, sextant, quadrant^ 
 a calendar, and several maps upon tbe wall; a ship clock ; three 
 wooden chairs; a dresser against wall, R. C; on the chimney" 
 piece the model of a brig and several shells. Tbe centre bare of 
 furniture. Through the windows and tbe door, which is open, 
 green trees and a small field of sea. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Arethusa is discovered, dusting 
 
 Arethusa. Ten months and a week to-day! Now 
 for a new mark. Since the last, the sun has set and 
 risen over the fields and the pleasant trees at home, and 
 on Kit's lone ship and the empty sea. Perhaps it blew; 
 perhaps rained; {at the chart) perhaps he was far up 
 here to the nor'ard, where the icebergs sail; perhaps at 
 anchor among these wild islands of the snakes and buc- 
 caneers. O, you big chart, if I could see him sailing 
 on you! North and South Atlantic; such a weary sight 
 of water and no land; never an island for the poor lad 
 to land upon. But still, God's there. {She takes down 
 the telescope to dust it,) Father's spy-glass again; and 
 
 33^ 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the 
 great deep! 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Arethusa; to her. Kit, C [He enters on tiptoe, and she 
 does not see or hear him] 
 
 Arethusa {dusting telescope). At sea they have less 
 dust at least: that's so much comfort. 
 
 Kit. Sweetheart, ahoy I 
 
 Arethusa. Kit! 
 
 Kit. Arethusa. 
 
 Arethusa. My Kit! Home again —O my lovel — 
 home again to mel 
 
 Kit. As straight as wind and tide could carry me! 
 
 Arethusa. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit — 01 O! 
 
 Kit. Hey ? Steady, lass : steady, I say. For goodness' 
 sake, ease it off. 
 
 Arethusa. I will. Kit — I will. But you came so 
 sudden. 
 
 Kit. I thought ten months of it about preparation 
 enough. 
 
 Arethusa. Ten months and a week: you haven't 
 counted the days as I have. Another day gone, and 
 one day nearer to Kit: that has been my almanac. 
 How brown you are! how handsome! 
 
 Kit. a pity you can't see yourself! Well, no, I'll 
 never be handsome: biown I maybe, never handsome. 
 But I'm better than that, if the proverb's true; for I'm 
 ten hundred thousand fathoms deep in love. I bring 
 you a faithful sailor. What! you don't think much of 
 thai for a curiosity ? Well, that's so: you're right; the 
 rarity is in the girl that's worth it ten times over. Faith- 
 
 536 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 ful ? I couldn't help it if I tried ! No, sweetheart, and I 
 fear nothing: I don't know what fear is, but just of 
 losing you. {Starting.) Lord, that's not the Admiral? 
 
 Arethusa. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought! you see you fear 
 my father. 
 
 Kit. That I do. But, thank goodness, it's nobody. 
 Kiss me: no, 1 won't kiss you: kiss me. I'll give you 
 a present for that. See! 
 
 Arethusa. A wedding-ring! 
 
 Kit. My mother's. Will you take it ? 
 
 Arethusa. Yes, will 1 — and give myself for it. 
 
 Kit. Ah, if we could only count upon your father! 
 He's a man every inch of him ; but he can't endure Kit 
 French. 
 
 Arethusa. He hasn't learned to know you. Kit, as I 
 have, nor yet do you know him. He seems hard and 
 violent; at heart he is only a man overwhelmed with 
 sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and does not 
 know that 1 observe him, should his face change, and 
 fill with such tenderness, that I could weep to see him ? 
 Why, when he walks in his sleep, as he does almost 
 every night, his eyes open and beholding nothing, why 
 should he cry so pitifully on my mother's name ? Ah, 
 if you could hear him then, you would say yourself: 
 here is a man that has loved ; here is a man that will 
 be kind to lovers. 
 
 Kit. Is that so ? Ay, it's a hard thing to lose your 
 wife; ay, that must cut the heart indeed. But for all 
 that, my lass, your father is keen for the doubloons. 
 
 Arethusa. Right, Kit: and small blame to him. 
 There is only one way to be honest, and the name of 
 that is thrift. 
 
 337 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. Well, and that's my motto. I've left the ship; 
 no more letter of marque for me. Good-bye to Kit 
 French, privateersman's mate; and how-d'ye-do to 
 Christopher, the coasting skipper. I've seen the very 
 boat for me: I've enough to buy her, too; and to fur- 
 nish a good house, and keep a shot in the locker for 
 bad luck. So far, there's nothing to gainsay. So far 
 it's hopeful enough ; but still there's Admiral Guinea, you 
 know — and the plain truth is that I'm afraid of him. 
 
 Arethusa. Admiral Guinea ? Now Kit, if you are to 
 be true lover of mine, you shall not use that name. His 
 name is Captain Gaunt. As for fearing him, Kit French, 
 you're not the man for me, if you fear anything but sin. 
 He's a stern man because he's in the right. 
 
 Kit. He is a man of God ; I am what he calls a child 
 of perdition. I was a privateersman — serving my 
 country, I say ; but he calls it pirate. He is thrifty and 
 sober; he has a treasure, they say, and it lies so near 
 his heart that he tumbles up in his sleep to stand watch 
 over it. What has a harum-scarum dog like me to ex- 
 pect from a man like him ? He won't see I'm starving 
 for a chance to mend; *'Mend," he'll say; •*ril be 
 shot if you mend at the expense of my daughter; " and 
 the worst of it is, you see, he'll be right. 
 
 Arethusa. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted 
 word again, I'll take my ring off. What are we here 
 for but to grow better or grow worse ? Do you think 
 Arethusa French will be the same as Arethusa Gaunt ? 
 
 Kit. I don't want her better. 
 
 Arethusa. Ah, but she shall be! 
 
 Kit. Hark, here he is ! By George, it's neck or noth- 
 ing now. Stand by to back me up. 
 
 338 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 SCENE III 
 To these, Gaunt, C 
 
 Kit {with Arethusa's hand). Captain Gaunt, I have 
 come to ask you for your daughter. 
 
 Gaunt. Hum. {He sits in his chair, L.) 
 
 Kit. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I've left the 
 privateering. I've enough to set me up and buy a tidy 
 sloop — Jack Lee's; you know^ the boat. Captain; 
 clinker built, not four years old, eighty tons burthen, 
 steers like a child. I've put my mother's ring on 
 Arethusa's finger; and if you'll give us your blessing, 
 I'll engage to turn over a new leaf, and make her a 
 good husband. 
 
 Gaunt. In whose strength, Christopher French ? 
 
 Kit. In the strength of my good, honest love for 
 her: as you did for her mother, and my father for 
 mine. And you know. Captain, a man can't command 
 the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he can always lie the 
 best course possible, and that's what I'll do, so God 
 help me. 
 
 Gaunt. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many 
 prayers; your eyes have been unsealed; and to you 
 the world stands naked, a morning watch for duration, 
 a thing spun of cobwebs for solidity. In the presence 
 of an angry God, I ask you: have you heard this man ? 
 
 Arethusa. Father, I know Kit, and I love him. 
 
 Gaunt. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. 
 To you, Christopher French, I will speak nothing of 
 eternal truths : I will speak to you the language of this 
 world. You have been trained among sinners who 
 
 339 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 gloried in their sin : in your whole life you never saved 
 one farthing; and now, when your pockets are full, 
 you think you can begin, poor dupe, in your own 
 strength. You are a roysterer, a jovial companion; 
 you mean no harm — you are nobody's enemy but 
 your own. No doubt you tell this girl of mine, and na 
 doubt you tell yourself, that you can change. Chris- 
 topher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You 
 ask me for this child of many supplications, for this 
 brand plucked from the burning: I look at you; I read 
 you through and through ; and I tell you — no ! {Strik- 
 ing table with his fist.) 
 
 Kit. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not 
 worthy of her, I'm the first to say so. But, if you'll 
 excuse me, sir, I'm a young man, and young men are 
 no better'n they ought to be; it's known; they're all 
 like that; and what's their chance? To be married to 
 a girl like this ! And would you refuse it to me ? Why, 
 sir, you yourself, when you came courting, you were 
 young and rough; and yet I'll make bold to say that 
 Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and the saving of 
 yourself into the bargain. Well, now, Captain Gaunt, 
 will you deny another man, and that man a sailor, the 
 very salvation that you had yourself? 
 
 Gaunt. Salvation, Christopher French, is from above. 
 
 Kit. Well, sir, that is so; but there's means, too; 
 and what means so strong as the wife a man has to 
 strive and toil for, and that bears the punishment 
 whenever he goes wrong ? Now, sir, I've spoke with 
 your old shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as nails, 
 they said, and true as the compass: as rough as a slaver, 
 but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you hear me plead : I 
 ask you for my chance; don't you deny it to me. 
 
 340 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Gaunt. You speak of me ? In the true balances we 
 both weigh nothing. But two things I know: the 
 depth of iniquity, how foul it is ; and the agony with 
 which a man repents. Not until seven devils were 
 cast out of me did I awake; each rent me as it passed. 
 Ay, that was repentance. Christopher, Christopher, 
 you have sailed before the wind since first you weighed 
 your anchor, and now you think to sail upon a bow- 
 line ? You do not know your ship, young man : you 
 will go to le'ward like a sheet of paper; I tell you so 
 that know — I tell you so that have tried, and failed, 
 -and wrestled in the sweat of prayer, and at last, at last, 
 have tasted grace. But, meanwhile, no flesh and blood 
 of mine shall lie at the mercy of such a wretch as I was 
 then, or as you are this day. I could not own the deed 
 before the face of heaven if I sanctioned this unequal 
 yoke. Arethusa, pluck off that ring from off your fin- 
 ger. Christopher French, take it, and go hence. 
 
 Kit. Arethusa, what do you say ? 
 
 Arethusa. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is 
 alone, and I am his only comfort; and I owe all to 
 him; and shall I not obey my father? But, Kit, if you 
 will let me, I will keep your ring. Go, Kit; go, and 
 prove to my father that he was mistaken; go and win 
 me. And O, Kit, if ever you should weary, come to 
 me — no, do not come! but send a word — and I shall 
 know all, and you shall have your ring. (Gaunt opens 
 his Bible and begins to read.) 
 
 Kit. Don't say that, don't say such things to me; I 
 sink or swim with you. {To Gaunt.) Old man, 
 you've struck me hard; give me a good word to go 
 with. Name your time; I'll stand the test. Give me 
 a spark of hope, and I'll fight through for it. Say just 
 
 34« 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 this — "Prove I was mistaken," and by George, I'll 
 prove it. 
 
 Gaunt {looking up). I make no such compacts. Go, 
 and swear not at all. 
 
 Arethusa. Go, Kit I I keep the ring. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 Arethusa, Gaunt 
 
 Arethusa. Father, what have we done that you 
 should be so cruel ? 
 
 Gaunt (laying down Bible, and rising). Do you call 
 me cruel ? You speak after the flesh. I have done you 
 this day a service that you will live to bless me for upon 
 your knees. 
 
 Arethusa. He loves me, and I love him: you can 
 never alter that; do what you will, father, that can 
 never change. I love him, I believe in him, I will be 
 true to him. 
 
 Gaunt. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has 
 left me on this earth ; and I must watch over your car- 
 nal happiness and your eternal weal. You do not know 
 what this implies to me. Your mother — my Hester — 
 tongue cannot tell, nor heart conceive the pangs she 
 suffered. If it lies in me, your life shall not be lost on 
 that same reef of an ungodly husband. (Goes out, C.) 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Arethusa 
 
 Arethusa. I thought the time dragged long and 
 weary when I knew that Kit was homeward bound, 
 
 342 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 all the white sails a-blowing out towards England, and 
 my Kit's face turned this way ? {She begins to dust,) 
 Sure, if my mother were here, she would understand 
 and help us ; she would understand a young maid's heart, 
 though her own had never an ache ; and she would love 
 my Kit. {Putting back the telescope.) To think she 
 died: husband and child — and so much love — she 
 was taken from them all. Ah, there is no parting but 
 the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each 
 other; and here am I cast down ? O, Arethusa, shame! 
 And your love home from the deep seas, and loving you 
 still; and the sun shining; andthe world all full of hope? 
 O, hope, you're a good word! 
 
 SCENE VJ 
 Arethusa ; to her. Pew 
 Pew (singing without) — 
 
 * ' Time for us to go ! 
 Time for us to go! 
 And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, 
 For it's time for us to go." 
 
 Arethusa. Who comes here ? a seaman by his song, 
 and father out! {She tries the air.) *'Time for us to 
 go! " It sounds a wild kind of song. {Tap-tap ; Pew 
 passes the window.) O, what a face — and blind! 
 
 Pew {entering). Kind Christian friends, take pity on 
 a poor blind mariner, as lost his precious sight in the 
 defence of his native country, England, and God bless 
 King George! 
 
 Arethusa. What can I do for you, sailor ? 
 
 343 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner 
 to a mouthful of meat. I've served His Majesty in every 
 quarter of the globe; I've spoke with 'Awke and glori- 
 ous Anson, as I might with you; and I've tramped it 
 all night long, upon my sinful feet, and with a empty 
 belly. 
 
 Arethusa. You shall not ask bread and be denied by 
 a sailor's daughter and a sailor's sweetheart; and when 
 my father returns he shall give you something to set 
 you on your road. 
 
 Pew. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you 
 are in a manner of speaking alone ? or do my ears de- 
 ceive a poor blind seaman ? 
 
 Arethusa. I live here with my father, and my father 
 is abroad. 
 
 Pew. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind 
 man your honoured name, that he may remember it in 
 his poor blind prayers. 
 
 Arethusa. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt. 
 
 Pew. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other 
 question : are you in a manner of speaking related to 
 Cap'n John Gaunt ? Cap'n John as in the ebony trade 
 were known as Admiral Guinea ? 
 
 Arethusa. Captain John Gaunt is my father. 
 
 Pew {dropping the blind man's whine). Lord, think 
 of that now! They told me this was where he lived, 
 iind so it is. And here's old Pew, old David Pew, as 
 was the Admiral's own bo'sun, colloguing in his old 
 commander's parlour, with his old commander's gal 
 {seizes Arethusa). Ah, and a bouncer you are, and no 
 ^mistake. 
 
 Arethusa. Let me go! how dare you? 
 
 344 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. Lord love you, don't you struggle, now, don't 
 you. (She escapes into front R. corner, where he keeps 
 her imprisoned.) Ah, well, we'll get you again, my 
 lovely woman. What a arm you've got — great god 
 of love — and a face like a peach! I'm a judge, I am. 
 {She tries to escape; he stops her.) No, you don't; O, 
 I can hear a flea jump ! [But it's here where I miss my 
 deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies always 
 would have for their fancy man and take no denial; 
 here you are with your commander's daughter close 
 'aboard, and you can't so much as guess the colour of 
 her lovely eyes. (Singing) — 
 
 '* Be they black like ebony, 
 Or be they blue like to the sky." 
 
 Black like the Admiral's? or blue like his poor dear 
 wife's ? Ah, I was fond of that there woman, I was : 
 the Admiral was jealous of me.] Arethusa, my dear, 
 — my heart, what a 'and and arm you have got; I'll 
 dream o' that 'and and arm, I will! — but as I was 
 a-saying, does the Admiral ever in a manner of speak- 
 ing refer to his old bo'sun David Pew ? him as he fell 
 out with about the black woman at Lagos, and almost 
 slashed the shoulder off of him one morning before 
 breakfast ? 
 
 Arethusa. You leave this house. 
 
 Pew. Hey ? (he closes and seizes her again.) Don't 
 you fight, my lovely one: now don't make old blind 
 Pew forget his manners before a female. What! you 
 will ? Stop that, or I'll have the arm right out of your 
 body. (He gives her arm a wrench,) 
 
 Arethusa. O! help, help! 
 345 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. Stash your patter, damn you. (Arethusa gives 
 in.) Ah, I thought it: Pew's way, Pew's way. Now, 
 look you here, my lovely woman. If you sling in an- 
 other word that isn't in answer to my questions, I'll 
 pull your j'ints out one by one. Where's the Com- 
 mander? 
 
 Arethusa. I have said : he is abroad. 
 
 Pew. When's he coming aboard again ? 
 
 Arethusa. At any moment. 
 
 Pew. Does he keep his strength ? 
 
 Arethusa. You'll see when he returns. {He wrenches 
 her arm again.) Ah ! 
 
 Pew. Is he still on piety ? 
 
 Arethusa. O, he is a Christian man I 
 
 Pew. a Christian man, is he ? Where does he keep 
 his rum ? 
 
 Arethusa. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help. 
 
 Pew. No more I shall {becoming amorous). You're a 
 lovely woman, that's what you are; how would you 
 like old Pew for a sweetheart, hey ? He's blind, is Pew, 
 but strong as a lion; and the sex is his 'ole delight. 
 Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kissl Come! 
 
 Arethusa. Leave go, leave go 1 
 
 Pew. Hey ? you would ? 
 
 Arethusa. Ah 1 {She thrusts him down, and escapes 
 to door, R.) 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Pew {picking himself up). Ah, she's a bouncer, she 
 is! Where's my stick? That's the sort of female for 
 David Pew. Didn't she fight ? and didn't she struggle ? 
 
 346 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 and shouldn't I like to twist her lovely neck for her ? 
 Pew's way with 'em all: the prettier they was, the 
 uglier he were to 'em. Pew's way: a way he had with 
 him; and a damned good way too. {Listens at L. 
 door.) That's her bedroom, I reckon; and she's double- 
 locked herself in. Good again: it's a crying mercy the 
 Admiral didn't come in. But you always loses your 
 'ed, Pew, with a female: that's what charms 'em. Now 
 for business. The front door. No bar; on'y a big lock 
 {trying keys from his pocket). Key one; no go. Key 
 two; no go. Key three; ah, that does it. Ah! {feeling 
 key) him with the three wards and the little 'un: good 
 again! Now if I could only find a mate in this rotten 
 country 'amlick: one to be eyes to me; I can steer, but 
 I can't conn myself, worse luck! If I could only find a 
 mate! And to-night, about three bells in the middle 
 watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and lay aboard 
 his ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring that, the 
 Admiral's old sea-chest — the chest he kept the shiners 
 in aboard the brig. Where is it, I wonder ? in his berth, 
 or in the cabin here ? It's big enough, and the brass 
 bands is plain to feel by. {Searching about with stick.) 
 Dresser — chair — {knocking his head on the cupboard). 
 Ah! — O, corner cupboard. Admiral's chair — Admiral's 
 table — Admiral's — hey! what's this.? — a book — 
 sheepskin — smells like a 'oly Bible. Chair {his stick 
 just avoids the chest). No sea-chest. I must have a 
 mate to see for me, to see for old Pew : him as had eyes 
 like a eagle! Meanwhile, rum. Corner cupboard, of 
 course {tap-tapping). Rum — rum — rum. Hey? {He 
 listens.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? {With the whine.) 
 
 Kind Christian friends 
 
 347 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 Pew ; to him Gaunt 
 
 Gaunt. What brings you here ? 
 
 Pew. Cap'n, do my ears deceive me ? or is this my 
 old commander? 
 
 Gaunt. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my 
 man, and what's your business ? 
 
 Pew. Here's the facks, so help me. A lovely female 
 in this house, was Christian enough to pity the poor 
 blind; and lo and be'old! who should she turn out to 
 be but my old commander's daughter ! ' ' My dear, " says 
 I to her, " I was the Admiral's own particular bo'sun." — 
 ** La, sailor," she says to me, " how glad he'll be to see 
 you!" — '*Ah," says I, ** won't he just — that's all." — 
 *'ril go and fetch him," she says; " you make yourself 
 at'ome." And off she went; and, Commander, here I am. 
 
 Gaunt {sitting down). Well ? 
 
 Pew. Well, Cap'n ? 
 
 Gaunt. What do you want ? 
 
 Pew. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I want 
 in a manner of speaking is money and rum. {A pame.) 
 
 Gaunt. David Pew, I have known you a long time. 
 
 Pew. And so you have; aboard the old Arethma ; 
 and you don't seem that cheered up as I'd looked for, 
 with an old shipmate dropping in, one as has been 
 seeking you two years and more — and blind at that. 
 Don't you remember the old chantie ? — 
 
 "Time for us to go, 
 Time for us to go, 
 And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 
 'Twas time for us to go." 
 348 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a 
 pannikin of rum, and what a fist for the shiners! Ah, 
 Cap'n, they didn't call you Admiral Guinea for nothing. 
 I can see that old sea-chest of yours — her with the 
 brass bands, where you kept your gold dust and doub- 
 loons: you know! — I can see her as well this minute 
 as though you and me was still at it playing put on the 
 lid of her ... . You don't say nothing, Cap'n? . . . 
 Well, here it is: I want money and I want rum. You 
 don't know what it is to want rum, you don't: it gets 
 to that p'int, that you would kill a 'ole ship's company 
 for just one guttle of it. What ? Admiral Guinea, my 
 old Commander, go back on poor old Pew ? and him 
 high and dry ? [Not you! When we had words over 
 the negro lass at Lagos, what did you do ? fair dealings 
 was your word: fair as between man and man; and 
 we had it out with p'int and edge on Lagos sands. 
 And you're not going back on your word to me, now 
 I'm old and blind ? No, no ! belay that, I say. Give 
 me the old motto : Fair dealings, as between man and 
 man.] 
 
 Gaunt. David Pew, it were better for you that you 
 you were sunk in fifty fathom. I know your life; and 
 first and last, it is one broadside of wickedness. You 
 were a porter in a school, and beat a boy to death ; you 
 ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped with me, a green 
 hand. Ay, that was the craft for you: that was the 
 right craft, and I was the right captain ; there was none 
 worse that sailed to Guinea. Well, what came of that ? 
 In five years' time you made yourself the terror and 
 abhorrence of your messmates. The worst hands de- 
 tested you; your captain — that was me, John Gaunt, 
 
 349 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 the chief of sinners — cast you out for a Jonah. [Who 
 was it stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with 
 his miserable wife ? Who, raging drunk on rum, 
 clapped fire to the barracoons and burned the poor 
 soulless creatures in their chains ?j Ay, you were a 
 scandal to the Guinea coast, from Lagos down to Cala- 
 bar ? and when at last I sent you ashore, a marooned 
 man — your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering 
 and rejoicing to be quit of you — by heaven, it was a 
 ton's weight off the brig! 
 
 Pew. Cap'n Gaunt, Cap'n Gaunt, these are ugly 
 words. 
 
 Gaunt. What next .^ You shipped with Flint the 
 Pirate. What you did then I know not; the deep seas 
 have kept the secret: kept it, ay, and will keep against 
 the Great Day. God smote you with blindness, but 
 you heeded not the sign. That was His last mercy; 
 look for no more. To your knees, man, and repent. 
 Pray for a new heart; flush out your sins with tears; 
 flee while you may from the terrors of the wrath to 
 come. 
 
 Pew. Now, I want this clear: Do I understand that 
 you're going back on me, and you'll see me damned 
 first ? 
 
 Gaunt. Of me you shall have neither money nor 
 strong drink: not a guinea to spend in riot; not a drop 
 to fire your heart with devilry. 
 
 Pew. Cap'n, do you think it wise to quarrel with 
 me? I put it to you now, Cap'n, fairly as between 
 man and man — do you think it wise? 
 
 Gaunt. I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. 
 Begone ! {He opens the Bible and begins to read. ) 
 
 350 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew (after a pause). Well, Cap'n, you know best, 
 no doubt; and David Pew's about the last man, though 
 I says it, to up and thwart an old Commander. You've 
 been 'ard on David Pew, Cap'n : 'ard on the poor blind ; 
 but you'll live to regret it — ah, my Christian friend, 
 you'll live to eat them words up. But there's no malice 
 here: that ain't Pew's way; here's a sailor's hand upon 
 it. . . . You don't say nothing? (Gaunt turns a 
 page.) Ah, reading, was you? Reading, by thunderl 
 Well, here's my respecks {singing) — 
 
 "Time for us to go. 
 Time for us to go, 
 When the money's out, and the liquor's done, 
 Why, it's time for us to go." 
 
 {He goes tapping up to door, turns on the threshold, 
 and listens. Gaunt turns a page. Pew, with a grim-' 
 ace, strikes his hand upon the pocket with the keys, and 
 goes.) 
 
 Drop. 
 
 355 
 
ACT II 
 
 The Stage represents the parlour of the ** Admiral Benhow" inn. 
 Fire-place, R., with high-backed settles on each side; in front ofthesey 
 and facing the audience, R., a small table laid with a cloth. Tables ^ 
 L., with glasses, pipes, etc. Broadside ballads on the wall. Outer 
 door of inn, with half-door in L., corner back; door, R., beyond 
 the fire-place ; window with red half-curtains; spittoons; candles 
 on both the front tables; night without. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Pew; afterwards IAks. Drake, out and in 
 
 Pew {entering). Kind Christian friends {listening; 
 
 then dropping the whine). Hey? nobody! Hey? A 
 grog-shop not two cable-lengths from the Admiral's 
 back-door, and the Admiral not there ? I never knew 
 a seaman brought so low: he ain't but the bones of the 
 man he used to be. Bear away for the New Jerusalem, 
 and this is what you run aground on, is it? Good 
 again ; but it ain't Pew's way ; Pew's way is rum. — 
 Sanded floor. Rum is his word, and rum his motion. 
 — Settle — chimbley — settle again — spittoon — table 
 rigged for supper. Table — glass. {Drinks heeltap.) 
 Brandy and water; and not enough of it to wet your 
 eye; damn all greediness, I say. Pot {drinks)^ small 
 beer — a drink that I ab'or like bilge! What I want is 
 
 35a 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 rum. {CaUtng, and rapping with stick on tabte.) 
 Halloa, there! House, ahoy! 
 
 Mrs. Drake {without). Coming, sir, coming. {She 
 
 enters, R.) What can I do } {Seeing Pew.) Well 
 
 I never did ! Now, beggar-man, what's for you ? 
 
 [Pew. Rum, ma'am, rum; and a bit o' supper. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. And a bed to follow, I shouldn't won- 
 der! 
 
 Pew. And a bed to follow: if you please.] 
 
 Mrs. Drake. This is the ''Admiral Benbow/' a re- 
 spectable house, and receives none but decent company; 
 and I'll ask you to go somewhere else, for I don't like 
 the looks of you. 
 
 Pew. Turn me away.^ Why, Lord love you, I'm 
 David Pew — old David Pew — him as was Benbow's 
 own particular cox'n. You wouldn't turn away old 
 Pew from the sign of his late commander's 'ed ? Ah, 
 my British female, you'd have used me different if 
 you'd seen me in the fight! [There laid old Benbow, 
 both his legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed spy- 
 glass at his eye to that same hour: a picter, ma'am, of 
 naval daring: when a round shot come, and took and 
 knocked a bucketful of shivers right into my poor day- 
 lights. '' Damme," says the Admiral, **is that old Pew, 
 my old Pew.?" he says. — '* It's old Pew, sir," says the 
 first lootenant, ** worse luck," he says. — **Then 
 damme," says Admiral Benbow, "if that's how they 
 serve a lion-'arted seaman, damme if I care to live," he 
 says; and, ma'am, he laid down his spy-glass.] 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Blind man, I don't fancy you, and that's 
 the truth; and I'll thank you to take yourself off. 
 
 Pew. Thirty years have I fought for country and 
 353 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 king, and now in my blind old age I'm to be sent 
 packing from a measly public 'ouse ? Mark ye, ma'am, 
 if I go, you take the consequences. Is this a inn ? Or 
 haint it? If it is a inn, then by act of parleyment, I'm 
 free to sling my 'ammick. Don't you forget: this is a 
 act of parleyment job, this is. You look out. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Why, what's to do with the man and 
 his acts of parliament ? I don't want to fly in the face 
 of an act of parliament, not I. If what you say is 
 true 
 
 Pew. True ? If there's anything truer than a act of 
 parleyment — Ah! you ask the beak. True? I've that 
 in my 'art as makes me wish it wasn't. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. I don't like to risk it. I don't like your 
 looks, and you're more sea-lawyer than seaman to my 
 mind. But I'll tell you what: if you can pay, you can 
 stay. So there. 
 
 Pew. No chink, no drink ? That's your motto, is it ? 
 Well, that's sense. Now, look here, ma'am, I ain't 
 beautiful like you; but I'm good, and I'll give you war- 
 rant for it. Get me a noggin of rum, and suthin' to 
 scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot of baccy ; and 
 there's a guinea for the reckoning. There's plenty more 
 in the locker; so bear a hand, and be smart. I don't 
 like waiting; it ain't my way. {Exit Mrs. Drake, R. 
 Pew sits at the table, R. The settle conceals him from 
 all the upper part of the stage.) 
 
 Mrs. Drake [re-entering). Here's the rum, sailor. 
 
 Pew [drinks). Ah, rum! That's my sheet-anchor: 
 rum and the blessed Gospel. Don't you forget that, 
 ma'am: rum and the Gospel is old Pew's sheet-anchor. 
 You can take for another while you're about it; and, I 
 
 354 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 say, short reckonings make long friends, hey ? Where's 
 my change ? 
 
 Mrs. Drake. I'm counting it now. There, there it 
 is, and thank you for your custom. {She goes out, R.) 
 
 Pew {calling after her). Don't thank me, ma'am; 
 thank the act of parleyment! Rum, fourpence; two 
 penny pieces and a Willi'm-and-Mary tizzy makes a 
 shilling; and a spade half-guinea is eleven and six 
 {re-enter Mrs. Drake with supper, pipe, etc.)] and a 
 blessed Majesty George the First crown-piece makes 
 sixteen and six; and two shilling bits is eighteen and 
 six; and a new half-crown makes — no it don't! O, 
 no! Old Pew's too smart a hand to be bammed with 
 a soft half-tusheroon. 
 
 Mrs. Drake {changing piece). I'm sure I didn't know 
 it, sailor. 
 
 Pew {trying new coin between his teeth). In course 
 you didn't, my dear; but I did, and I thought I'd men- 
 tion it. Is that my supper, hey ? Do my nose deceive 
 me? {Sniffing and feeling.) Cold duck? sage and 
 onions ? a round of double Gloster ? and that noggin 
 o' rum ? Why, I declare if I'd stayed and took pot- 
 luck with my old commander, Cap'n John Gaunt, he 
 couldn't have beat this little spread, as I've got by act 
 of parleyment. 
 
 Mrs. Drake {at knitting). Do you know the captain, 
 sailor ? 
 
 Pew. Know him ? I was that man's bo'sun, ma'am. 
 In the Guinea trade, we was known as " Pew's Cap'n," 
 and "Gaunt's Bo'sun," one for other like. We was 
 like two brothers, ma'am. And a excellent cold duck, 
 to be sure ; and the rum lovely. 
 
 355 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Mrs. Drake. If you know John Gaunt, you know 
 his daughter Arethusa. 
 
 Pew. What ? Arethusa ? Know her, says you ? 
 know her ? Why, Lord love you, I was her god-father. 
 ["Pew," says Jack Gaunt to me, "Pew," he says, 
 " you're a man, " he says ; " I like a man to be a man, " 
 says he, "and damme," he says, "I like you; and 
 sink me," says he, "if you don't promise and vow in 
 the name of that new-born babe," he says, "why 
 damme. Pew," says he, "you're not the man I take 
 you for."] Yes, ma'am, I named that female; with 
 my own *ands I did; Arethusa, I named her; that was 
 the name I give her; so now you know if I speak 
 true. And if you'll be as good as get me another nog- 
 gin of rum, why, we'll drink her 'elth with three times 
 three. {Exit Mrs. Drake: Pew eating. Mrs. Drake 
 re-entering with rum.) 
 
 [Mrs. Drake. If what you say be true, sailor (and I 
 don't say it isn't, mind!), it's strange that Arethusa and 
 that godly man her father have never so much as spoke 
 your name. 
 
 Pew. Why, that's so ! And why, says you ? Why, 
 when I dropped in and paid my respecks this morning, 
 do you think she knew me } No more'n a babe un- 
 born! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed for 
 her, I was the picter of a man-o'-war's man, I was: 
 eye like a eagle; walked the deck in a hornpipe, foot 
 up and foot down; v'ice as mellow as rum; 'and upon 
 'art, and all the females took dead aback at the first 
 sight. Lord bless 'em ! Know me ? Not likely. And 
 as for me, when I found her such a lovely woman — 
 by the feel of her 'and and arm! — you might have 
 
 356 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 knocked me down with a feather. But here's where 
 it is, you see: when you've been knocking about on 
 blue water for a matter of two and forty year, ship- 
 wrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere 
 out of luck, and given over for dead by all your mess- 
 mates and relations, why what it amounts to is this: 
 nobody knows you, and you hardly knows yourself, 
 and there you are; and I'll trouble you for another nog- 
 gin of rum. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. I think you've had enough. 
 
 Pew. I don't; so bear a hand. {Exit Mrs. Drake; 
 Pew empties the glass.) Rum, ah, rum, you're a lovely 
 creature; they haven't never done you justice. {Pro- 
 ceeds to fill and light pipe ; re-enter Mrs. Drake with 
 rum.)] And now, ma'am, since you're so genteel and 
 amicable-like, what about my old commander ? Is he, 
 in a manner of speaking, on half pay ? or is he living 
 on his fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought ? 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Well, sailor, people talk, you know. 
 
 Pew. I know, ma'am; I'd have been rolling in my 
 coach, if they'd have held their tongues. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, 
 for so pious a man, is little better than a miser. 
 
 Pew. Don't say it, ma'am; not to old Pew. Ah, 
 how often have I up and strove with him! **Cap'n, 
 live it down," says I. "Ah, Pew," says he, "you're 
 a better man than I am," he says; "but damme," he 
 says, "money," he says, "is like rum to me." (In- 
 sinuating.) And what about a old sea-chest, hey? a 
 old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands ? 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Why, that'll be the chest in his par- 
 lour, where he has it bolted to the wall, as I've seen 
 
 357 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 with my own eyes; and so might you, if you had eyes 
 to see with. 
 
 Pew. No, ma'am, that ain't good enough; you don't 
 bam old Pew. You never was in that parlour in your 
 life. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. I never was? Well, I declare! 
 
 Pew. Well then, if you was, where's the chest? 
 Beside the chimbley, hey? {Winking.) Beside the 
 table with the 'oly Bible ? 
 
 Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, you don't get any informa- 
 tion out of me. 
 
 Pew. What, ma'am ? Not to old Pew ? Why, my 
 god-child showed it me herself, and I told her where 
 she'd find my name — P, E, W, Pew — cut out on the 
 starn of it; and sure enough she did. Why, ma'am, 
 it was his old money-box when he was in the Guinea, 
 trade; and they do say he keeps the rhino in it still. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And 
 if you want to know, you can ask the Admiral him- 
 self! {She crosses, L.) 
 
 Pew. Hey ! Old girl fly ? Then I reckon I must 
 have a mate, if it was the parish bull. 
 
 SCENE II 
 To thesey Kit, a little drunk 
 
 Vat {looking in over half- door). Mrs. Drake! Mother! 
 Where are you ? Come and welcome the prodigal! 
 
 Mrs. Drake {coming forward to meet him as he en^ 
 ters ; Pew remains concealed by the settle, smoking^ 
 drinking, and listening). Lord bless us and save us, 
 if it ain't my boy! Give us a kiss. 
 
 358 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. 
 {Kisses her.) 
 
 Mrs. Drake. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those other 
 houses, where the stuff they give you, my dear, it is 
 poison for a dog. 
 
 [Kit. Round with friends, mother: only round with 
 friends. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Well, anyway, you'll take a glass just 
 to settle it, from me. {She brings the bottle, and fills 
 
 or him.) There, that's pure; that'll do you no harm.] 
 But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done with all this 
 Jack-a-shoring. 
 
 Kit. What cheer, mother ? I'm only a sheet in the 
 wind; and who's the worse for it but me ? 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her 
 waiting and keeping single these two years for the love 
 of you! 
 
 Kit. She, mother ? she's heart of oak, she's true as 
 steel, and good as gold; and she has my ring on her 
 finger, too. But where's the use ? The Admiral won't 
 look at me. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Why not? You're as good a man as 
 him any day. 
 
 Kit. Am \} He says I'm a devil, and swears that 
 none of his flesh and blood — that's what he said, 
 mother! — should lie at my mercy. That's what cuts 
 me. If it wasn't for the good stuff I've been taking 
 aboard, and the jolly companions I've been seeing it 
 out with, I'd just go and make a hole in the water, and 
 be done with it, I would, by George! 
 
 Mrs. Drake. That's like you men. Ah, we know 
 you, we that keeps a public-house — we know you, 
 
 359 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 good and bad: you go off on a frolic and forget; and 
 you never think of the women that sit crying at home. 
 
 Kit. Crying ? Arethusa cry ? Why, dame, she's the 
 bravest-hearted girl in all broad England! Here, fill the 
 glass! I'll win her yet. I drink to her; here's to her 
 bright eyes, and here's to the blessed feet she walks 
 upon! 
 
 Pew {looking round the corner of the settle). Spoke 
 like a gallant seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I'm a man 
 as has suffered, and I'd like to shake your fist, and drink 
 a can of flip with you. 
 
 Kit {coming down). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil 
 are you ? Who's this, mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Nay, I know nothing about him. (She 
 goes out, R.) 
 
 Pew. Cap'n, I'm a brot'ner seaman, and my name is 
 Pew, old David Pew, as you may have heard of in your 
 time, he having sailed along of 'Awke and glorious 
 Benbow, and a right 'and man to both. 
 
 Kit. Benbow ? Steady, mate ! D'ye mean to say you 
 went to sea before you were born } 
 
 Pew. See now ! The sign of this here inn was run- 
 'ning in my 'ed, I reckon. Benbow, says you } no, not 
 likely! Anson, I mean; Anson and Sir Edward 'Awke: 
 that's the pair: I was their right 'and man. 
 
 Kit. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but 
 you're a rum un to look at, anyhow. 
 
 Pew. Right you are, and so I am. But what is 
 looks } It's the 'art that does it: the 'art is the seaman's 
 star; and here's old David Pew's, a matter of fifty years 
 at sea, but tough and sound as the British Constitootion. 
 
 Kit. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. 
 360 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 And you're a man they're down upon, just like myself, 
 I see. We're a pair of plain, good-hearted, jolly tars ; 
 and all these 'longshore fellows cock a lip at us, by 
 George. What cheer, mate ? 
 
 Arethusa {without). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake! 
 
 Pew. What, a female ? hey ? a female ? Board her, 
 board her, mate! I'm dark. {He retires again behind, 
 to table, R.y behind settle,) 
 
 Arethusa {without). Mrs. Drake! 
 
 Mrs. Drake {re-entering and running to door). Here 
 I am, my dear; come in. 
 
 SCENE III 
 To these, Arethusa 
 
 Arethusa. Ah, Kit, I've found you. I thought you 
 would lodge with Mrs. Drake. 
 
 Kit. What? are you looking for your consort? 
 Whistle, I'm your dog; I'll come to you. I've been 
 toasting you fathom deep, my beauty; and with every 
 glass 1 love you dearer. 
 
 Arethusa. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, 
 this is not the way. Perhaps he thinks too much of 
 the guineas : well, gather them — if you think me worth 
 the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker built, eighty 
 tons burthen — you see I remember, Skipper Kit! I 
 don't deny I like a man of spirit; but if you care to 
 please Captain Gaunt, keep out of taverns ; and if you 
 could carry yourself a bit more — more elderly! 
 
 [Kit. Can 1 ? Would 1 ? Ah, just couldn't and just 
 won't I, then ! 
 
 Mrs. Drake. I hope, madam, you don't refer to my 
 361 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 house; a publican I may be, but tavern is a word that 
 I don't hold with; and here there's no bad drink, and 
 no loose company; and as for my blessedest Kit, I de- 
 clare I love him like my own. 
 
 Arethusa. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake ?] 
 
 Kit. Arethusa, you're an angel. Do I want to please 
 Captain Gaunt? Why, that's as much as ask whether 
 I love you. [I don't deny that his words cut me; for 
 they did. But as for wanting to please him, if he was 
 deep as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it out. And 
 elderly, too.? Aha, you witch, you're wise! Elderly? 
 You've set the course; you leave me alone to steer it. 
 Matrimony's my port, and love is my cargo.] That's a 
 likely question, ain't it, Mrs. Drake ? Do I want to 
 please him! Elderly, says you? Why, see here: Fill 
 up my glass, and I'll drink to Arethusa on my knees. 
 
 Arethusa. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that 
 would please him ? 
 
 Kit. On my knees I'll drink it! {As he kneels and 
 drains the gla^s. Gaunt enters, and he scramble to his 
 feet,) 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 To these. Gaunt 
 
 Gaunt. Arethusa, this is no place for you. 
 
 Arethusa. No, father. 
 
 Gaunt. I wish you had been spared this sight; but 
 look at him, child, since you are here; look at God's 
 image, so debased. And you, young man {to Kit), 
 you have proved that I was right. Are you the hus- 
 band for this innocent maid ? 
 
 Kit. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Terror is your last word; you're bitter hard upon poor 
 sinners, bitter hard and black — you that were a sinner 
 yourself. These are not the true colours : don't deceive 
 yourself; you're out of your course. 
 
 [Gaunt. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Chris- 
 topher. It is not I; it's God's law that is of iron. 
 Think! if the blow were to fall now, some cord to 
 snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife into 
 your heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to 
 vanish; this world to disappear like a drowning man 
 into the great ocean; and you, your brain still whirling, 
 to be snatched into the presence of the eternal Judge: 
 Christopher French, what answer would you make.^ 
 For these gifts wasted, for this rich mercy scorned, for 
 these high-handed bravings of your better angel, — 
 what have you to say ? 
 
 Kit, Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by 
 your leave I'll have it out. 
 
 Arethusa. Kit, for pity's sake! 
 
 Kit. Arethusa, I don't speak to you, my dear: you've 
 got my ring, and I know what that means. The man I 
 speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came to-day as happy a 
 man as ever stepped, and with as fair a look-out. What 
 did you care ? what was your reply ? None of your 
 flesh and blood, you said, should lie at the mercy of a 
 wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood that you 
 should trample on me like that ? Is that charity, to 
 stamp the hope out of a poor soul ?] 
 
 Gaunt. You speak wildly ; or the devil of drink that 
 is in you speaks instead. 
 
 Kit. You think me drunk ? well, so I am, and whose 
 fault is it but yours ? It was I that drank; but you 
 
 363 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 take your share of it, Captain Gaunt: you it was that 
 filled the can. 
 
 Gaunt. Christopher French, I spoke but for your 
 good, your good and hers. *' Woe unto him " — these 
 are the dreadful words — **by whom ofTences shall 
 
 come: it were better " Christopher, I can but pray 
 
 for both of us. 
 
 Kit. Prayers ? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, 
 I don't value your prayers. Deeds are what I ask; 
 kind deeds and words — that's the true-blue piety: to 
 hope the best and do the best, and speak the kindest. 
 As for you, you insult me to my face; and then you'll 
 pray for me ? What's that ? Insult behind my back is 
 what I call it ! No, sir ; you're out of the course ; you're 
 no good man to my view, be you who you may. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt ? 
 
 Arethusa. Father, father, come away ! 
 
 Kit. Ah, you see.^ She suffers too; we all suffer. 
 You spoke just now of a devil; well, I'll tell you the 
 devil you have: the devil of judging others. And as 
 for me, I'll get as drunk as Bacchus. 
 
 Gaunt. Come! 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Pew, Mrs. Drake, Kit 
 
 Pew (coming out and waving his pipe). Commander, 
 shake! Hooray for old England! If there's anything 
 in the world that goes to old Pew's 'art, it's argyment. 
 Commander, you handled him like a babby, kept the 
 weather gauge, and hulled him every shot. Com- 
 mander, give it a name, and let that name be rum! 
 
 364 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. Ay, rum's the sailor's fancy. Mrs. Drake, a 
 bottle and clean glasses. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Kit French, I wouldn't. Think better 
 of it, there's a dear! And that sweet girl just gone! 
 
 Pew. Ma'am, I'm not a 'ard man; I'm not the man 
 to up and force a act of parleyment upon a helpless 
 female. But you see here: Pew's friends is sacred. 
 Here's my friend here, a perfeck seaman, and a man 
 with a 'ed upon his shoulders, and a man that, damme, 
 I admire. He give you a order, ma'am : — march ! 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Kit, don't you listen to that blind man; 
 he's the devil wrote upon his face. 
 
 Pew. Don't you insinuate against my friend. He 
 ain't a child, I hope } he knows his business ? Don't 
 you get trying to go a lowering of my friend in his 
 own esteem. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Well, I'll bring it. Kit; but it's against 
 the grain. {Exit) 
 
 Kit. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should 
 we.^ It's been glasses round with me all day. I've 
 got my cargo. 
 
 Pew. You ? and you just argy'd the 'ed off of Admiral 
 Guinea? O stash that! /stand treat, if it comes to that! 
 
 Kit. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not 
 stand him } That's not the man I am! 
 
 Mrs. Drake {re-entering with bottle and glasses.) 
 There! 
 
 Pew. Easy does it, ma'am. 
 
 Kit. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot. 
 
 Mrs. Drake. Yes, I'll trot; and I trot with a sick 
 heart. Kit French, to leave you drinking your wits 
 away with that low blind man. For a low man you 
 
 365 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 are — a low blind man — and your clothes they would 
 disgrace a scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit; and O, 
 dear boy, go soon to yours — the old room, you know; 
 it's ready for you — and go soon and sleep it off; for 
 you know, dear, they, one and all, regret it in the 
 morning; thirty years I've kept this house, and one 
 and all they regret it, dear. 
 
 Pew. Come now, you walk! 
 
 Mrs. Drake. O, it's not for your bidding. You a 
 seaman ? The ship for you to sail in is the hangman's 
 cart. — Good-night, Kit dear, and better company! 
 
 SCENE VI 
 Pew, Kit. They sit at the other table, L. 
 
 Pew. Commander, here's her 'ealth ! 
 
 Kit. Ay, that's the line: her health! But that old 
 woman there is a good old woman, Pew. 
 
 Pew. So she is, Commander. But there's no woman 
 understands a seaman; now you and me, being both 
 bred to it, we splice by natur'. As for A. G., if argy- 
 ment can win her, why, she's yours. If I'd a-had your 
 'ed for argyment, damme, I'd a-been a Admiral, I would! 
 And if argyment won't win her, well, see here, you put 
 your trust in David Pew. 
 
 Kit. David Pew, I don't know who you are, David 
 Pew; I never heard of you; I don't seem able to clearly 
 see you. Mrs. Drake, she's a smart old woman, Pew 
 and she says you've the devil in your face. 
 
 Pew. Ah, and why, says you ? Because I up and 
 put her in her place, when she forgot herself to you, 
 Commander. 
 
 366 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. Well, Pew, that's so; you stood by me like a 
 man. Shake hands, Pew; and we'll make a night of 
 it, or we'll know why, old boy! 
 
 Pew. That's my way. That's Pew's way, that is. 
 That's Pew's way all over. Commander, excuse the 
 liberty; but when I was your age, making allowance 
 for a lowlier station and less 'ed for argyment, I was as 
 like you as two peas. I know it by the v'ice {sings) — 
 
 *' We hadn't been three days at sea before we saw a sail, 
 So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a gale, 
 And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did 
 
 know, 
 ^s well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go.** 
 
 Chorus, Cap'nl 
 
 Pew and Kit (in chorus) — 
 
 " Time for us to go, 
 Time for us to go. 
 As well as ever a soul on board, 
 'Twas time for us to go." 
 
 Pew {sings) — 
 
 ** We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone; 
 Says the skipper, * They may go or stand, I'm damned if I don't 
 
 crack on; 
 So the weather braces we'll round in, and the trysail set also, 
 And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, for its time for us to go.* ** 
 
 Give it mouth. Commander! 
 Pew and Kit {in chorus) — 
 
 *' Time for us to go. 
 Time for us to go, 
 And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away. 
 For it's time for us to go." 
 367 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. I ain't sung like that since I sang to Admiral 
 *Awke, the night before I lost my eyes, 1 ain't. "Sink 
 me! " says he, says Admiral 'Awke, my old commander 
 (touching his hat), **sink me!" he says, "if that ain't 
 'art-of-oak," he says: " 'art-of-oak," says he, "and a 
 pipe like a bloody blackbird!" Commander, here's 
 my respecks, and the devil fly away with Admiral 
 Guinea! 
 
 Kit. I say, Pew, how's this? How do you know 
 about Admiral Guinea ? I say, Pew, I begin to think 
 you know too much. 
 
 Pew. I ax your pardon ; but as a man with a 'ed for 
 argyment — and that's your best p'int o' sailing, Com- 
 mander; intelleck is your best p'int — as a man with a 
 'ed for argyment, how do I make it out ? 
 
 Kit. Aha, you're a sly dog, you're a deep dog, Pew; 
 but you can't get the weather of Kit French. How do 
 I make it out.^ I'll tell you. I make it out like this: 
 Your name's Pew, ain't it ? Very well. And you know 
 Admiral Guinea, and that's his name, eh ? Very well. 
 Then you're Pew; and the Admiral's the Admiral; and 
 you know the Admiral ; and by George, that's all. Hey ? 
 Drink about, boys, drink about! 
 
 Pew. Lord love you, if I'd a-had a 'ed like yours! 
 Why, the Admiral was my first cap'n. I was that man's 
 bo'sun, I was, aboard the Arethusa ; and we was like 
 two brothers. Did you never hear of Guinea-land and 
 the black ivory business ? (sings) — 
 
 *' A quick run to the south we had, and when we made the Bight 
 We kept the offing all day long and crossed the bar at night. 
 Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow, 
 And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 'twas time for us to go." 
 368 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Lay forward, lads ! 
 
 Kit and Pew {in chorus) — 
 
 " Time for us to go," etc. 
 
 Kit. I say, Pew, I like you; you're a damned ugly 
 dog; but I like you. But look ye here, Pew: fair does 
 it, you know, or we part company this minute. If you 
 
 and the Ad the Admirable were like brothers on 
 
 the Guinea coast, why aren't you like brothers here } 
 
 Pew. Ah, /see you coming. What a 'ed! what a 
 *ed! Since Pew is a friend of the family, says you, why 
 didn't he sail in and bear a hand, says you, when you 
 was knocking the Admiral's ship about his ears in ar- 
 gyment } 
 
 Kit. Well, Pew, now you put a name to it, why not } 
 
 Pew. Ah, why not } There I recko'nise you. [Well, 
 see here: argyment's my weakness, in a manner of 
 speaking; I wouldn't a-borne down and spiled sport,, 
 not for gold untold, no, not for rum, I wouldn't! And 
 besides. Commander, I put it to you, as between man 
 and man, would it have been seaman-like to let on and 
 show myself to a old shipmate, when he was yard-arm 
 to yard-arm with a craft not half his metal, and getting 
 blown out of water every broadside ? Would it have 
 been 'ansome ? I put it to you, as between man and 
 man. 
 
 Kit. Pew, I may have gifts ; but I never thought of 
 that. Why, no: not seaman-like. Pew, you've a 
 heart; that's what I like you for. 
 
 Pew. Ah, that I have: you'll see. I wanted — now 
 you follow me — I wanted to keep square with Admiral 
 Guinea.] Why ? says you. Well, put it that I know a 
 
 3^9 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 fine young fellow when I sees him ; and put it that I 
 wish him well; and put it, for the sake of argyment, 
 that the father of that lovely female's in my power. 
 Aha? Pew's Power! Why, in my 'ands he's like this 
 pocket 'andke'cher. Now, brave boy, do you see ? 
 
 Kit. No, Pew, my head's gone; I don't see. 
 
 Pew. Why, cheer up, Commander! You want to 
 marry this lovely female ? 
 
 Kit. Ay, that I do; but I'm not fit for her. Pew; I'm 
 a drunken dog, and I'm not fit for her. 
 
 Pew. Now, Cap'n, you'll allow a old seaman to be 
 
 judge: one as sailed with 'Awke and blessed Benb 
 
 with 'Awke and noble Anson. You've been open and 
 above-board with me, and I'll do the same by you: it 
 being the case that you're hard hit about a lovely wo- 
 man, which many a time and oft it has happened to old 
 Pew; and him with a feeling 'art that bleeds for you. 
 Commander; why look here: I'm that girl's godfather; 
 promised and vowed for her, I did; and I like you; and 
 you're the man for her; and, by the living Jacob, you 
 shall splice! 
 
 Kit. David Pew, do you mean what you say ? 
 
 Pew. Do I mean what I say ? Does David Pew ? Ask 
 Admiral 'Awke! Ask old Admiral Byng in his coffin, 
 where I laid him with these 'ands! Pew does, is what 
 those naval commanders would reply. Mean it.^ I 
 reckon so. 
 
 Kit. Then, shake hands. You're an honest man. 
 Pew — old Pew! — and I'll make your fortune. But 
 there's something else, if I could keep the run of it. O, 
 ah! But can you? That's the point. Can you; don't 
 you see ? 
 
 370 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. Can I ? You leave that to me; I'll bring you to 
 your moorings; I'm the man that can, and I'm him that 
 will. But only, look here, let's understand each other. 
 You're a bold blade, ain't you ? You won't stick at a 
 trifle for a lovely female ? You'll back me up ? You're 
 a man, ain't you ? a man, and you'll see me through 
 and through it, hey .^ Come; is that so? Are you fair 
 and square and stick at nothing ? 
 
 Kit. Me, Pew ? I'll go through fire and water. 
 
 Pew. I'll risk it. — Well, then, see here, my son: 
 another swallow and we jog. 
 
 Kit. No, not to-night. Pew, not to-night! 
 
 Pew. Commander, in a manner of speaking, where- 
 fore ? 
 
 Kit. Wherefore, Pew ? 'Cause why, Pew ? 'Cause 
 I'm drunk, and be damned to you! 
 
 Pew. Commander, I ax your pardon; but, saving 
 your presence, that's a lie. What ? drunk ? a man with 
 a 'ed for argyment like that ? Just you get up, and steady 
 yourself on your two pins, and you'll be as right as 
 ninepence. 
 
 [Kit. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your flip- 
 per again. You're heart of oak. Pew, sure enough; and 
 if you can bring the Adam — Admirable about, why, 
 damme, I'll make your fortune! How you're going to 
 do it, I don't know; but I'll stand by; and I know 
 you'll do it if anybody can. But I'm drunk. Pew; you 
 can't deny that: I'm as drunk as a Plymouth fiddler. 
 Pew; and how you're going to do it is a mystery to 
 me. 
 
 Pew. Ah, you leave that to me. All I want is what 
 I've got: your promise to stand by and bear a hand 
 
 37» 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 {producing a dark lantern).'] Now, here, you see, is 
 my little glim; it ain't for me, because I'm blind, worse 
 luck! and the day and night is the blessed same to 
 David Pew. But you watch. You put the candle near 
 me. Here's what there ain't mony blind men could do, 
 take the pick o' them ! {lighting a screw of paper y and 
 with that, the lantern) Hey } That's it. Hey ? Go and 
 pity the poor blind! 
 
 Kit {while Pew blows out the candles). But I say. 
 Pew, what do you want with it ? 
 
 Pew. To see by, my son. {He shuts the lantern and 
 puts it in his pocket. Stage quite dark. Moonlight at 
 window.) All ship-shape? No sparks about.?* No.> 
 Come, then, lean on me and heave ahead for the lovely 
 female. {Singing sotto voce) — 
 
 " Time for us to go. 
 Time for us to go, 
 And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 
 'Twas time for us to go." 
 
 Drop 
 
 ^7« 
 
ACT III 
 
 The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Act I. Gaunt 
 seated, is reading aloud ; Arethusa sjYs at his feet. Candles 
 
 SCENE I 
 Arethusa, Gaunt 
 
 [Gaunt {reading). '*And Ruth said, Intreat me not 
 1o leave thee, or to return from following after thee: 
 for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou 
 lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, 
 and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, 
 and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and 
 more also, if aught but death part thee and me." {He 
 •closes the book.) Amen. 
 
 Arethusa. Amen. Father, there spoke my heart] 
 
 Gaunt. Arethusa, the Lord in his mercy has seen 
 right to vex us with trials of many kinds. It is a little 
 matter to endure the pangs of the flesh : the smart of 
 wounds, the passion of hunger and thirst, the heaviness 
 of disease; and in this world I have learned to take 
 thought for nothing save the quiet of your soul. It is 
 through our affections that we are smitten with the 
 true pain, even the pain that kills. 
 
 Arethusa. And yet this pain is our natural lot. 
 373 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Father, I fear to boast, but I know that I can bear it 
 Let my life, then, flow like common lives, each pain 
 rewarded with some pleasure, each pleasure linked 
 with some pain: nothing pure whether for good or 
 evil: and my husband, like myself, and all the rest of 
 us, only a poor, kind-hearted sinner, striving for the 
 better part. What more could any woman ask ? 
 
 Gaunt. Child, child, your words are like a sword. 
 What would she ask ? Look upon me whom, in the 
 earthly sense, you are commanded to respect. Look 
 upon me: do I bear a mark? is there any outward 
 sign to bid a woman avoid and flee from me ? 
 
 Arethusa. I see nothing but the face I love. 
 
 Gaunt. There is none: nor yet on the young man 
 Christopher, whose words still haunt and upbraid me. 
 Yes, I am hard; I was born hard, born a tyrant, born 
 to be what I was, a slaver captain. But to-night, and 
 to save you, I will pluck my heart out of my bosom. 
 You shall know what makes me what 1 am; you shall 
 hear, out of my own life, why I dread and deprecate 
 this marriage. Child, do you remember your mother.^ 
 
 Arethusa. Remember her? Ah, if she had been 
 here to-day ! 
 
 Gaunt. It is thirteen years since she departed, and 
 took with her the whole sunshine of my life. Do you 
 remember the manner of her departure ? You were a 
 child, and cannot; but I can and do. Remember? 
 shall I ever forget? Here, or hereafter, ever forget! 
 Ten years she was my wife, and ten years she lay 
 a-dying. Arethusa, she was a saint on earth; and it 
 was 1 that killed her. 
 
 Arethusa. Killed her ? my mother ? You ? 
 374 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Gaunt. Not with my hand; for I loved her. I 
 would not have hurt one hair upon her head. But she 
 got her death by me, as sure as by a blow. 
 
 Arethusa. I understand — I can see: you brood 
 on trifles, misunderstandings, unkindnesses you think 
 them; though my mother never knew of them, or 
 never gave them a second thought. It is natural, when 
 death has come between. 
 
 Gaunt. I married her from Falmouth. She was 
 comely as the roe; I see her still — her dove's eyes and 
 her smile! I was older than she; and I had a name 
 for hardness, a hard and wicked man; but she loved 
 me — my Hester! — and she took me as I was. O how 
 I repaid her trust! Well, our child was born to us; 
 and we named her after the brig I had built and sailed, 
 the old craft whose likeness — older than you, girl — 
 stands there above our heads. And so far, that was 
 happiness. But she yearned for my salvation; and it 
 was there I thwarted her. My sins were a burden upon 
 her spirit, a shame to her in this world, her terror in 
 the world to come. She talked much and often of my 
 leaving the devil's trade I sailed in. She had a tender 
 and a Christian heart, and she would weep and pray 
 for the poor heathen creatures that I bought and sold 
 and shipped into misery, till my conscience grew hot 
 within me. I've put on my hat, and gone out and 
 made oath that my next cargo should be my last; but 
 it never was, that oath was never kept. So I sailed 
 again and again for the Guinea coast, until the trip 
 came that was to be my last indeed. Well, it fell out 
 that we had good luck trading, and I stowed the brig 
 with these poor heathen as full as she could hold. We 
 
 375 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 had a fair run westward till we were past the line; but 
 one night the wind rose and there came a hurricane, 
 and for seven days we were tossed on the deep seas, 
 in the hardest straits, and every hand on deck. For 
 several days they were battened down: all that time 
 we heard their cries and lamentations, but worst at 
 the beginning; and when at last, and near dead myself, 
 I crept below — O! some they were starved, some 
 smothered, some dead of broken limbs; and the hold 
 was like a lazar-house in the time of the anger of the 
 Lord! 
 
 Arethusa. O! 
 
 Gaunt. It was two hundred and five that we threw 
 overboard: two hundred and five lost souls that I had 
 hurried to their doom. I had many die with me be- 
 fore; but not like that — not such a massacre as that; 
 and I stood dumb before the sight. For I saw I was 
 their murderer — body and soul their murderer; and, 
 Arethusa, my Hester knew it. That was her death- 
 stroke: it felled her. She had long been dying slowly; 
 but from the hour she heard that story, the garment 
 of the flesh began to waste and perish, the fountains 
 of her life dried up; she faded before my face; and in 
 two months from my landing — O Hester, Hester, 
 would God 1 had died for thee! 
 
 Arethusa. Mother! O poor soul! O poor father I 
 O father, it was hard on you. 
 
 Gaunt. The night she died, she lay there, in her bed. 
 She took my hand. "I am going," she said, "to 
 heaven. For Christ's sake," she said, " come after me, 
 and bring my little maid. I'll be waiting and wearying 
 till you come; " and she kissed my hand, the hand that 
 
 376 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 3cilled her. At that I broke out calling on her to stop, for 
 it was more than 1 could bear. But no, she said she 
 must still tell me of my sins, and how the thought of 
 them had bowed down her life. "And O! " she said, 
 *'if I couldn't prevail on you alive, let my death." . . . 
 Well, then, she died. What have I done since then ? 
 I've laid my course for Hester. Sin, temptation, pleas- 
 ure, all this poor shadow of a world, I saw them not: 
 I saw my Hester waiting, waiting and wearying. I have 
 -made my election sure; my sins I have cast them out. 
 Hester, Hester, I will come to you, poor waiting one; 
 and I'll bring your little maid: ay, dearest soul, I'll bring 
 your little maid safe with me! 
 
 Arethusa. O teach me how! Show me the way! 
 only show me. — O mother, mother ! — If it were paved 
 with fire, show me the way, and I will walk it bare-foot! 
 
 Gaunt. They call me a miser. They say that in this 
 sea-chest of mine I hoard my gold. {He passes R. to 
 chest, takes out key, and unlocks it.) They think my 
 treasure and my very soul are locked up here. They 
 speak after the flesh, but they are right. See! 
 
 Arethusa. Her watch } the wedding ring } O father, 
 forgive me! 
 
 Gaunt. Ay, her watch that counted the hours when 
 I was away; they were few and sorrowful, my Hester's 
 'hours; and this poor contrivance numbered them. The 
 Ting — with that I married her. This chain, it's of 
 Guinea gold ; I brought it home for her, the year before 
 we married, and she wore it to her wedding. It was 
 a vanity : they are all vanities; but they are the treasure 
 of my soul. Below here, see, her wedding dress. Ay, 
 the watch has stopped: dead, dead. And I know that 
 
 377 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 my Hester died of me; and day and night, asleep and 
 awake, my soul abides in her remembrance. 
 
 Arethusa. And you come in your sleep to look at 
 them. O poor father! I understand — I understand 
 you now. 
 
 Gaunt. In my sleep? Ay? do I so? My Hester! 
 
 Arethusa. And why, why did you not tell me? I 
 thought — I was like the rest! — I feared you were a 
 miser. O, you should have told me; I should have 
 been so proud — so proud and happy. I knew you 
 loved her; but not this, not this. 
 
 Gaunt. Why should I have spoken ? It was all be- 
 tween my Hester and me. 
 
 Arethusa. Father, may I speak? May I tell you 
 what my heart tells me ? You do not understand 
 about my mother. You loved her — O, as few men 
 can love. And she loved you: think how she loved 
 you! In this world, you know — you have told me — 
 there is nothing perfect. All we men and women have 
 our sins; and they are a pain to those that love us, and 
 the deeper the love, the crueller the pain. That is life; 
 and it is life we ask, not heaven; and what matter for 
 the pain, if only the love holds on? Her love held: 
 then she was happy! Her love was immortal; and 
 when she died, her one grief was to be parted from you, 
 her one hope to welcome you again. 
 
 Gaunt. And you, Arethusa: I was to bring her little 
 maid. 
 
 Arethusa. God bless her, yes, and me! But, father, 
 can you not see that she was blessed among women? 
 
 Gaunt. Child, child, you speak in ignorance; you 
 touch upon griefs you cannot fathom. 
 
 378 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Arethusa. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved 
 you and died of it. Why else do women live ? What 
 would I ask but just to love my Kit and die for him, 
 and look down from heaven, and see him keep my 
 memory holy and live the nobler for my sake ? 
 
 Gaunt. Ay, do you so love him ? 
 
 Arethusa. Even as my mother loved my father. 
 
 Gaunt. Ay ? Then we will see. What right have 
 
 I You are your mother's child: better, tenderer, 
 
 wiser than I. Let us seek guidance in prayer. Good- 
 night, my little maid. 
 
 Arethusa. O father, I know you at last. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Gaunt and Arethusa go out, L, carrying the candles. 
 Stage dark. A distant clock chimes the quarters, and 
 strikes one. Then, the tap-tapping of Pew's stick is 
 heard without; the key is put into the lock; and enter 
 Pew, C, he pockets key, and is followed by Kit, with 
 dark lantern. 
 
 Pew. Quiet, you lubber! Can't you foot it soft, you 
 that has daylights and a glim ? 
 
 Kit. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get 
 through the door ? Shall I knock him up } 
 
 Pew. Stow your gab {seizing his wrist). Under your 
 breath ! 
 
 Kit. Avast that! You're a savage dog, aren't you? 
 
 Pew. Turn on that glim. 
 
 Kit. It's as right as a trivet. Pew. What next I hy 
 George, Pew, I'll make your fortune. 
 
 379 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. 
 D'ye see a old sea-chest ? 
 
 Kit. See it, Pew ? why, d'ye think I'm blind ? 
 
 Pew. Take me across, and let me feel of her. Mum; 
 catch my hand. Ah, that's her {feeling the chest), that's 
 the Golden Mary. Now, see here, my bo, if you've 
 the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, this girl is yours; if 
 you hain't, and think to sheer off, I'm blind, but I'm 
 deadly. 
 
 Kit. You'll keep a civil tongue in your head all the 
 same. I'll take threats from nobody, blind or not. 
 Let's knock up the Admiral and be done with it. What 
 I want is to get rid of this dark lantern. It makes me 
 feel like a housebreaker, by George. 
 
 Pew (seated on chest). You follow this. I'm sick 
 of drinking bilge, when I might be rolling in my coach, 
 and I'm dog-sick of Jack Gaunt. Who's he to be wal- 
 lowing in gold, when a better man is groping crusts in 
 the gutter and spunging for rum } Now, here in this 
 blasted chest is the gold to make men of us for life: 
 gold, ay, gobs of it; and writin's too — things that if I 
 had the proof of 'em I'd hold Jack Gaunt to the grind- 
 stone till his face was flat. I'd have done it single- 
 handed; but I'm blind, worse luck: I'm all in the 
 damned dark here, poking with a stick — Lord, burn 
 up with lime the eyes that saw it! That's why I raked 
 up you. Come, out with your iron, and prise the lid 
 off. You shall touch your snack, and have the wench 
 for nothing; ay, and fling her in the street, when done. 
 
 Kit. So you brought me here to steal, did you ? 
 
 Pew. Ay did I; and you shall. I'm a biter: I bring 
 blood. 
 
 380 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or 
 I'd kill you like a rat. As it is, out of that door! One, 
 two, three {drawing his cutlass), and off! 
 
 Pew {leaping at his throat, and with a great voice). 
 Help! murder! thieves! 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 To these Arethusa, Gaunt, with lights. Stage light. 
 Pew has Kit down, and is throttling him 
 
 Pew. I've got him, Cap'n. What, kill my old com- 
 mander, and rob him of his blessed child ? Not with 
 old Pew! 
 
 Gaunt. Get up, David: can't you see you're killing 
 him } Unhand, I say. 
 
 Arethusa. In heaven's name, who is it ? 
 
 Pew. It's a damned villain, my pretty; and his name, 
 to the best of my belief, is French. 
 
 Arethusa. Kit? Kit French ? Never! 
 
 Kit {rising). He's done for me. {Falls on chest.) 
 
 [Pew. Don't you take on about him, ducky; he ain't 
 worth it. Cap'n Gaunt, I took him and I give him up. 
 You was 'ard on me this morning, Cap'n: this is my 
 way — Pew's way, this is — of paying of you out. 
 
 Arethusa. Father, this is the blind man that came 
 while you were abroad. Sure you'll not listen to him. 
 And you. Kit, you, what is this ? 
 
 Kit. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half-throttled 
 me. He brought me here — I can't speak — he has 
 almost killed me — and I'd been drinking too. 
 
 Gaunt. And you, David Pew, what do you say ?] 
 381 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Pew. Cap'n, the rights of it is this. Me and that 
 young man there was partaking in a friendly drop of 
 rum at the Admiral Benbow inn; and I'd just proposed 
 his blessed Majesty, when the young man he ups and 
 says to me: "Pew," he says, "I like you, Pew: you're 
 a true seaman," he says; "and I'm one as sticks at 
 nothing; and damme. Pew," he says, "I'll make your 
 fortune." [Can he deny as them was his words } Look 
 at him, you as has eyes: no, he cannot. "Come along 
 of me," he says, " and damme, I'll make your fortune."] 
 Well, Cap'n, he lights a dark lantern (which you'll find 
 it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out we goes, 
 me follerin' his lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and a 
 true-blue mariner; and the next I knows is, here we 
 was in here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the glim, while 
 he prised the lid off of your old sea-chest with his 
 cutlass. 
 
 Gaunt. The chest? {He leaps, R., and examines 
 chest) Ah! 
 
 Pew. Leastways, I was to *elp him, by his account 
 of it, while he nailed the rhino, and then took and car- 
 ried off that lovely maid of yours; for a lovely maid she 
 is, and one as touched old Pew's 'art. Cap'n, when I 
 *eard that, my blood biled. "Young man," I says, 
 "you don't know David Pew," I says; and with that 
 I ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and all, like a 
 lion-'arted seaman, though blind. [And then in comes 
 you, and I gives him up: as you know for a fack is 
 true, and I'll subscribe at the Assizes. And that, if you 
 was to cut me into junks, is the truth, the 'ole truth, 
 and nothing but the truth, world without end, so help 
 me, amen; and if you'll 'and me over the 'oly Bible, me 
 
 382 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 not having such a thing about me at the moment, why, 
 I'll put a oath upon it like a man.] 
 
 Arethusa. Father, have you heard ? 
 
 [Gaunt. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth 
 is not in him. 
 
 Arethusa. Well, and why do we wait ? We know 
 Kit, do we not ? 
 
 Kit. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you 
 can see his face and mine.] 
 
 Gaunt. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I 
 find you here in my house at midnight: you who at 
 least had eyes to see, and must have known whither 
 you were going. It was this man, not you, who called 
 me up: and when I came in, it was he who was upper- 
 most and who gave you up to justice. This unsheathed 
 cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard, empty; and 
 as for the dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind ? 
 and who could have trimmed and lighted it but you ^ 
 
 Pew. Ah, Cap'n, what a 'ed for argyment! 
 
 Kit. And now, sir, that you have spoken, I claim 
 the liberty to speak on my side. 
 
 Gaunt. Not so. I will first have done with this 
 man. David Pew, it were too simple to believe your 
 story as you tell it; but I can find no testimony against 
 you. From whatever reason, assuredly you have done 
 me service. Here are five guineas to set you on your 
 way. Begone at once; and while it is yet time, think 
 upon your repentance. 
 
 Pew. Cap'n, here's my respecks. You've turned a 
 pious man, Cap'n; it does my 'art good to 'ear you. 
 But you ain't the only one. O no! I came about and 
 paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon : you 
 
 383 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 ask the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the 
 quarter-deck before old Admiral 'Awke himself {touch- 
 ing his hat), my old commander. ["David Pew," he- 
 says, " five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade, 
 man and boy," that chaplain says, " and damme. Pew," 
 says he, ** if ever I seen the seaman that could rattle off 
 his catechism within fifty mile of you. Here's five 
 guineas out of my own pocket," he says; "and what's 
 more to the pint," he says, "Til speak to my reverend 
 brother-in-law, the Bishop of Dover," he says; "and 
 if ever you leave the sea, and wants a place as beadle, 
 why damme," says he, "you go to him, for you're the 
 man for him, and him for you." 
 
 Gaunt. David Pew, you never set your foot on a 
 King's ship in all your life. There lies the road. 
 
 Pew. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and a 
 'ard man to believe, like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. 
 But it's time for me to go, and I'll be going. My ser- 
 vice to you, Cap'n : and I kiss my *and to that lovely 
 female. (Singing) — 
 
 '* Time for us to go, 
 Time for us to go. 
 And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 
 'Twas time for us to go." 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Kit, Arethusa, Gaunt 
 
 Arethusa. Now, Kit ? 
 Kit. Well, sir, and now ? 
 
 Gaunt. I find you here in my house at this untimely 
 and unseemly hour; I find you there in company with 
 
 384 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 one who, to my assured knowledge, should long since 
 have swung in the wind at Execution Dock. What 
 brought you ? Why did you open my door while I 
 slept to such a companion? Christopher French, I 
 have two treasures. One {laying his hand on Are- 
 thusa's shoulder) I know you covet: Christopher, is 
 this your love ? 
 
 Kit. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That man 
 declared he knew you, declared he could make you 
 change your mind about our marriage. I was drunk, 
 sir, and I believed him: heaven knows I am sober now, 
 and can see my folly; but 1 believed him then, and 
 followed him. He brought me here, he told me your 
 chest was full of gold that would make men of us for 
 life. At that I saw my fault, sir, and drew my cutlass ; 
 and he, in the wink of an eye, roared out for help, 
 leaped at my throat like a weasel and had me rolling 
 on the floor. He was quick, and I, as I tell you, sir, 
 was off my balance. 
 
 Gaunt. Is this man. Pew, your enemy ? 
 
 Kit. No, sir; I never saw him till to-night. 
 
 Gaunt. Then, if you must stand the justice of your 
 country, come to the proof with a better plea. What.^ 
 lantern and cutlass yours; you the one that knew the 
 house; you the one that saw; you the one overtaken 
 and denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn like 
 that ? If that is all your defence, you'll hang, sir, 
 hang. 
 
 Arethusa. Ah! . . . Father, I give him up: I will 
 never see him, never speak to him, never think of 
 him again; I take him from my heart; I give my- 
 self wholly up to you and to my mother; I will obey 
 
 385 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 you in every point — O, not at a word merely — at a 
 finger raised! I will do all this; I will do anything — 
 anything you bid me; I swear it in the face of heaven. 
 Only — Kit ! 1 love him, father, I love him. Let him go. 
 
 [Gaunt. Go ? 
 
 Arethusa. You let the other. Open the door again 
 — for my sake, father — in my mother's name — O, 
 open the door and let him go.] 
 
 Kit. Let me go ? My girl, if you had cast me out 
 this morning, good and well: I would have left you, 
 though it broke my heart. But it's a changed story 
 now; now I'm down on my luck, and you come and 
 stab me from behind. I ask no favour, and I'll take 
 none; I stand here on my innocence, and God helping 
 me I'll clear my good name, and get your love again, 
 if it's love worth having. [Now, Captain Gaunt, I've 
 said my say, and you may do your pleasure. I am my 
 father's son, and I never feared to face the truth. 
 
 Gaunt. You have spoken like a man, French, and 
 you may go. 1 leave you free. 
 
 Kit. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I'm ac- 
 cused and counted guilty; the proofs are against me; 
 the girl 1 love has turned upon me. I'll accept no 
 mercy at your hands.] Captain Gaunt, I am your 
 prisoner. 
 
 Arethusa. Kit, dear Kit 
 
 Gaunt. Silence! Young man, I have offered you 
 liberty without bond or condition. You refuse. You 
 shall be judged. Meanwhile {opening the door, R.), 
 you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night 
 brings counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (He locks 
 Kit in, leaving the key in the door. ) 
 
 586 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 SCENE V 
 Gaunt, Arethusa, afterwards Pew 
 
 Arethusa. Father, you believe in him; you do; I 
 know you do. 
 
 Gaunt. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will 
 pray and sleep upon this matter. {A knocking at the 
 door, C.) Who knocks so late ? {He opens.) 
 
 Pew {entering). Cap'n, shall I fetch the constable ? 
 
 Gaunt. No. 
 
 Pew. No ? Have ye killed him ? 
 
 Gaunt. My man, I'll see you into the road. {He 
 takes Pew by the arm, and goes out with him,) 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Arethusa 
 
 Arethusa. {Listens ; then running to door, R.) Kit 
 — dearest Kit ! wait ! I will come to you soon. (Gaunt 
 re-enter Sy C, as the drop falls,) 
 
 ^7 
 
ACT IV 
 
 The Stage represents the /tdmiraVs bouse, as in A£ls J. and III, A 
 chair, L, in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. En^ 
 ter Arethusa, L, with candle ; she lights another ; and passes to 
 door J R., which she unbolts. Stage light 
 
 SCENE I 
 Arethusa, Kit 
 
 Arethusa. Come, dear Kit, come! 
 
 Kit. Well, I'm here. 
 
 Arethusa. O Kit, you are not angry with me ? 
 
 Kit. Have I reason to be pleased ? 
 
 Arethusa. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me. 
 
 Kit. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it 
 kindly; but there are some kindnesses a man would 
 rather die than take a gift of. When a man is accused, 
 Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows — it's the 
 shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way 
 to help was to stand to your belief. You should have 
 nailed my colours to the mast, not spoke of striking 
 them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your 
 love there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the 
 other side — which would I choose? 
 
 Arethusa. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was 
 not my life that was at stake, it was yours. Had it 
 been mine — mine, Kit — what had you done, then ? 
 
 388 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out 
 Why, give you up, by George! 
 
 Arethusa. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It 
 was all pure love. When he said that word — O! — 
 death and that disgrace! . . . But I know my father. 
 He fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; 
 and yet it conquers. He would pray, he said; and to- 
 night, and by the kindness of his voice, I knew he was 
 convinced already. All that is wanted, is that you 
 should forgive me. 
 
 Kit. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that Vd for- 
 give you piracy on the high seas. I was only sulky; I 
 was boxed up there in the black dark, and couldn't see 
 my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George! 
 
 Arethusa. O, that blind man ! The fiend ! He came 
 back, Kit: did you hear him? he thought we had 
 killed you — you! 
 
 Kit. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping com- 
 pany with such a swab. 
 
 Arethusa. One thing puzzles me: how did you get 
 in ? I saw my father lock the door. 
 
 Kit. Ah, how ? That's just it. I was a sheet in the 
 wind, you see. How did we? He did it somehow, 
 ... By George, he had a key ! He can get in again. 
 
 Arethusa. Again ? that man ! 
 
 Kit. Ay, can he! Again! When he likes! 
 
 Arethusa. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my 
 father. 
 
 Kit. Afraid. I'm glad of that. Now, you'll see I'm 
 worth my salt at something. Ten to one he's back to 
 Mrs. Drake's. I'll after, and lay him aboard. 
 
 Arethusa. O Kit, he is too strong for you. 
 389 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Kit. Arethusa, that's below the belt! Never you 
 fear; I'll give a good account of him. 
 
 Arethusa {taking cutlass from the wall). You'll be 
 none the worse for this, dear. 
 
 Kit. That's so {making cuts). All the same, I'm half 
 ashamed to draw on a blind man; it's too much odds. 
 {He leans suddenly against the table.) Ah ! 
 
 Arethusa. Kit! Are you ill ? 
 
 Kit. My head's like a humming top; it serves me 
 right for drinking. 
 
 Arethusa. O, and the blind man! {She runs, L, 
 to the corner cupboard, brings a bottle and glass, and 
 fills and offers glass.) Here, lad, drink that. 
 
 Kit. To you ! That's better. {Bottle and glass re- 
 main on G aunt's table.) 
 
 Arethusa. Suppose you miss him ? 
 
 Kit. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can 
 hear the tap-tapping of that stick a mile away. 
 
 Arethusa {listening). St! my father is stirring in 
 his room ! 
 
 Kit. Let me get clear; tell him why when I'm gone. 
 The door } 
 
 Arethusa. Locked! 
 
 Kit. The window! 
 
 Arethusa. Quick, quick ! {She unfastens R. window, 
 by which Kit goes out.) 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Arethusa, Gaunt entering L 
 
 Arethusa. Father, Kit is gone. ... He is asleep. 
 Gaunt. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, 
 390 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 they go so heavily, my Hester still waiting! {He goes 
 R. to chest, which he opens.) That is your chain; it's 
 of Guinea gold ; I brought it you from Guinea. ( Taking 
 out chain.) You liked it once; it pleased you long ago; 
 O, why not now — why will you not be happy now? 
 ... I swear this is my last voyage; see, I lay my hand 
 upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more venture 
 — for the child's sake, Hester; you don't think upon 
 your little maid. 
 
 Arethusa. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake ! 
 
 Gaunt. Ten days out from Lagos. That's a strange 
 sunset, Mr. Yeo. All hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, 
 look smart! . . . What's that.? Only the negroes in 
 the hold. . . . Mr. Yeo, she can't live long at this; I 
 have a wife and child in Barnstaple. . . . Christ, what 
 a sea! Hold on, for God's sake — hold on fore and aft! 
 Great God ! {as. though the sea were making a breach over 
 the ship at the moment). 
 
 Arethusa. O! 
 
 Gaunt. They seem quieter down below there. . . . 
 No water — no light — no air — seven days battened 
 down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship labour- 
 ing hell-deep! Two hundred and five, two hundred 
 and five, two hundred and five — all to eternal torture! 
 
 Arethusa. O pity him, pity him ! Let him sleep, let 
 him forget! Let her prayers avail in heaven, and let 
 him rest! 
 
 Gaunt. Hester, no, don't smile at me. Rather tears! 
 I have seen you weep — often, often ; two hundred and 
 five times. Two hundred and five! {With ring.) Hester, 
 here is your ring {he tries to put the ring on his finger). 
 How comes it in my hand ? Not fallen off again ? O 
 
 39^ 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 no, impossible! it was made smaller, dear, it can't have 
 fallen off! Ah, you waste away. You must live, you 
 must, for the dear child's sake, for mine, Hester, for 
 mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor 
 Kit French! And she, your little maid, she's like you, 
 Hester, and she will save him! How should a man be 
 saved without a wife ? 
 
 Arethusa. O father, if you could but hear me thank 
 and bless you! ( The tapping of Pew's stick is heard ap- 
 proaching. Gaunt passes L. front and sits. ) 
 
 Gaunt {beginning to count the taps). One — two — 
 two hundred and five 
 
 Arethusa {listening). God help me, the blind man! 
 {She runs to door, C; the hey is put into the lock from 
 without, and the door opens.) 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Arethusa {at back of stage by the door) ; Gaunt {front 
 L.); to these, Pew, C. 
 
 Pew {sotto voce). All snug. {Coming down.) So that 
 was you, my young friend Christopher, as shot by me 
 on the road; and so you was hot foot after old Pew? 
 Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I'll have the 
 bowels out of that chest, and I reckon you'll be lagged 
 and scragged for it. {y4t these words Arethusa locks 
 the door, and takes the key.) What's that? All still. 
 There's something wrong about this room. Pew, my 
 'art of oak, you're queer to-night; brace up, and carry 
 on. Where's the tool ? {Producing knife.) Ah, here 
 she is; and now for the chest; and the gold; and rum 
 
 392 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 — rum — rum. What! Open? ... old clothes, by 
 God! . . . He's done me; he's been before me; he's 
 bolted with the swag; that's why he ran: Lord wither 
 and waste him forty year for it! O Christopher, if I had 
 my fingers on your throat! Why didn't I strangle the 
 soul out of him ? I heard the breath squeak in his wea- 
 sand; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah, Jack, that's 
 another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was God Al- 
 mighty for five minutes ! (Gaunt rises and begins to pace 
 the stage like a quarterdeck, L.) What's that.? A man's 
 walk. He don't see me, thank the blessed dark! But 
 it's time to slip, my bo. {He gropes his way stealthily 
 till he comes to Gaunt' s table, where he burns his hand 
 in the candle.) A candle — lighted — then it's bright as 
 day! Lord God, doesn't he see me? It's the horrors 
 come alive. (Gaunt draws near and turns away.) I'll 
 go mad, mad! {He gropes to the door, stopping and 
 starting.) Door. {His voice rising for the first time, 
 sharp with terror.) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! 
 Keep off — keep off of me — keep away! {Sotto voce 
 again.) Keep your head. Lord have mercy, keep your 
 head. I'm wet with sweat. What devil's den is this ? 
 I must out — out ! {He shakes the door vehemently.) No ? 
 Knife it is then — knife — knife — knife ! {He moves with 
 the knife raised towards Gaunt, intently listening and 
 changing his diredlion as Gaunt changes his position on 
 the stage. ) 
 
 Arethusa {rushing to intercept him). Father, father, 
 wake! 
 
 Gaunt. Hester, Hester! {He turns, in time to see 
 Arethusa grapple Pew in the centre of the Stage, and 
 ?E\N force her down.) 
 
 393 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 Arethusa. Kit! Kit! 
 
 Pew {with the knife raised). Pew's way! 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 To these, Kit 
 
 {He leaps through window, R., and cuts Pew down. 
 At the same moment, Gaunt, who has heen staring help-' 
 lessly at his daughter's peril, fully awakes.) 
 
 Gaunt. Death and blood! (Kit, helping Akethvsa, 
 has let fall the cutlass. Gaunt picks it up and runs on 
 Pew.) Damned mutineer, I'll have your heart out! 
 {He stops, stands staring, drops cutlass, falls upon his 
 knees.) God forgive me! Ah, foul sins, would you 
 blaze forth again ? Lord, close your ears ! Hester, 
 Hester, hear me not! Shall all these years and tears be 
 unavailing? 
 
 Arethusa. Father, I am not hurt. 
 
 Gaunt. Ay, daughter, but my soul — my lost soul! 
 
 Pew {rising on his elbow). Rum ? You've done me. 
 For God's sake, rum. (Arethusa pours out a glass, 
 which Kyv gives to iim.) Rum? This ain't rum; it's 
 fire! {With great excitement.) What's this ? I don't 
 like rum ? {Feebly.) Ay, then, I'm a dead man, and 
 give me water. 
 
 Gaunt. Now even his sins desert him. 
 
 Pew {drinking water). Jack Gaunt, you've always 
 been my rock ahead. It's thanks to you I've got my 
 papers, and this time I'm shipped for Fiddler's Green. 
 Admiral, we ain't like to meet again, and I'll give you 
 a toast: Here's Fiddler's Green, and damn all lubbers! 
 
 394 
 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 
 
 {Seizing Gaunt's arm.) I say — fair dealings, Jack ! — 
 none of that heaven business: Fiddler's Green's my 
 port, now, ain't it ? 
 
 Gaunt. David, you've hove short up, and God for- 
 bid that I deceive you. Pray, man, pray; for in the 
 place to which you are bound there is no mercy and 
 no hope. 
 
 Pew. Ay, my lass, you're black, but your blood's 
 red, and I'm all a-muck with it. Pass the rum, and be 
 damned to you. ( Trying to sing) — 
 
 " Time for us io go. 
 Time for us " 
 
 {He dies.) 
 
 Gaunt. But for the grace of God, there lies John 
 Gaunt! Christopher, you have saved my child; and 
 I, I, that was blinded with self-righteousness, have 
 fallen. Take her, Christopher; but 0, walk humbly! 
 
 curtain 
 
 395 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 A MELODRAMATIC FARCE IN THREE ACTS 
 
 Oopyrlght, 1895, by Stone &, 'KSxabalL 
 Copyright, 1808, by Charles Scribner's Sena 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 Robert Macaire. 
 
 Bertrand. 
 
 DuMONT, Landlord of the Auberge dea Adrets. 
 
 Charles, a Gendarme, Dumont's supposed son. 
 
 GORIOT. 
 
 The MARQyis, Charles's Father. 
 
 The Brigadier of Gendarmerie. 
 
 The Curate. 
 
 The Notary. 
 
 A Waiter. 
 
 Ernestine, Goriot's Daughter. 
 
 Aline. 
 
 Maids, Peasants {Male and Female), Gendarmes. 
 
 The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the Auherge des Adrets, on the 
 frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1820. The action occupies 
 an interval of from twelve to fourteen hours : from four in the after- 
 noon till about five in the morning. 
 
 Mote — The time between the acts should be as brief as possible, and 
 the piece played, where it is merely comic, in a vein of patter. 
 
ACT I 
 
 The Stage represents the courtyard of the Auberge des Adrets. It is 
 surrounded bj> the buildings of the inn, -with a gallery on the first 
 story, approached, C, by a straight flight of stairs. L. C, the en- 
 trance doorway. A little in front of this, a small grated office, 
 containing business table, brass-bound cabinet, and portable cash- 
 box. In front, R. and L., tables and benches ; one, L., partially 
 laid for a considerable party 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Aline and Maids; to whom Fiddlers; afterwards 
 DuMONT and Charles. As the curtain rises, the sound 
 of the violins is heard approaching. Aline and the inn 
 servants, who are discovered laying the table, dance up 
 to door L. C, to meet the Fiddlers, who enter like- 
 wise dancing to their own music. Air : *' Haste to the 
 Wedding. ' ' The Fiddlers exeunt playing into home, 
 R. U. E. Aline and Maids dance back to table, which 
 they proceed to arrange 
 
 Aline. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding 
 feast. It tickles your heart till your heels make a run- 
 away match of it. I don't mind extra work, I don't, 
 so long as there's fun about it. Hand me up that pile of 
 plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a 
 pink in the Notary's glass : that's the girl he's courting. 
 
 DuMONT (entering ; with Charles). Good girls, good 
 399 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 girls! Charles, in ten minutes from now what happy 
 faces will smile around that board! 
 
 Charles. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and 
 most of all in this, that my happiness has made my 
 father happy. 
 
 DuMONT. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point 
 we shall have more to say. 
 
 Charles. What more remains that has not been said 
 already ? For surely, sir, there are few sons more for- 
 tunate in their father: and, since you approve of this 
 marriage, may 1 not conceive you to be in that sense 
 fortunate in your son ? 
 
 DuMONT. Dear boy, there is always a variety of con- 
 siderations. But the moment is ill chosen for dispute; 
 to-night, at least, let our felicity be unalloyed. {Look- 
 ing off L. C.) Our guests arrive: here is our good 
 Curate, and here our cheerful Notary. 
 
 Charles. His old infirmity, I fear. 
 
 DuMONT. But Charles — dear boy! — at your wed- 
 ding feast! I should have taken it unneighbourly had 
 he come strictly sober. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 To these, by the door L C, the Curate and the No- 
 tary, arm in arm; the latter owl-like and titubant 
 
 Curate. Peace be on this house! 
 
 Notary {singing). ** Prove an excuse for the glass." 
 
 DuMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours ! The 
 Church and the Law. 
 
 Curate. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings 
 are in solemn congruence with this momentous step. 
 
 400 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Notary, {digging Charles in the ribs). Married? 
 Lovely bride ? Prove an excuse! 
 
 DuMONT {to Curate). I fear our friend ? perhaps ? as 
 usual ? eh ? 
 
 Curate. Possibly : I had not yet observed it. 
 
 DuMONT. Well, well, his heart is good. 
 
 Curate. He doubtless meant it kindly. 
 
 Notary. Where's Aline ? 
 
 Aline. Coming, sir! {I^otaky makes for her,) 
 
 Curate {capturing bim). You will infallibly expose 
 yourself to misconstruction. {To Charles.) Where is 
 your commanding officer ? 
 
 Charles. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Infor- 
 mation has been received from Lyons that the notorious 
 malefactor, Robert Macaire, has broken prison, and the 
 Brigadier is now scouring the country in his pursuit. 
 I myself am instructed to watch the visitors to our 
 house. 
 
 DuMONT. That will do, Charles: you may go. {Exit 
 Charles.) You have considered the case I laid before 
 you? 
 
 Notary. Considered a case ? 
 
 DuMONT. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. 
 Can he marry ? under these untoward and peculiar cir- 
 cumstances, can he marry ? 
 
 Notary. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract 
 to which there are two constracting parties. That be- 
 ing clear, I am prepared to argue categorically that your 
 son Charles — who, it appears, is not your son Charles 
 — I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract 
 being null and void, the other party to a contract cannot 
 by law oblige or constrain the first party to constract or 
 
 401 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 bind himself to any contract, except the other party be 
 able to see his way clearly to constract himself with 
 him. I donno if 1 make myself clear? 
 
 DUMONT. No. 
 
 Notary. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice 
 of peace might possibly afford relief. 
 
 DuMONT. But how ? 
 
 Notary. Ay, there's the rub. 
 
 DuMONT. But what am I to do ? He's not my son, I 
 tell you : Charles is not my son. 
 
 Notary. I know. 
 
 DuMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him ? 
 
 Notary. That's what I want. {They go out, L. U. E.) 
 
 Aline. And now, if you've done deranging my table, 
 to the cellar for the wine, the whole pack of you. {Ma- 
 net sola, considering table.) There: it's like a garden. 
 If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would 
 marry the Notary. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Stage remains vacant. Enter, by door L. C, 
 Macaire, followed by Bertrand with the bundle ; in the 
 traditional costume 
 
 Macaire. Good ! No police. 
 
 Bertrand {looking off, L. C). Sold again! 
 
 Macaire. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten 
 minutes from the frontier: ten minutes from escape. 
 Blessings on that frontier line! The criminal hops 
 across, and lo! the reputable man. {Reading) "Au- 
 berge des Adrets, by John Paul Dumont." A table set 
 
 403 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 for company; this is fate: Bertrand, are we the first ar- 
 rivals? An office; a cabinet; a cash-box — aha! and 
 a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a 
 Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of 
 a woman! Outside gallery: an architectural feature I 
 approve; I count it a convenience both for love and 
 war: the troubadour — twang-twang; the craftsman 
 
 {Makes as if turning key.) The kitchen window : 
 
 humming with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was 
 born for truffles. Cock your hat: meat, wine, rest, 
 and occupation ; men to gull, women to fool, and still 
 the door open, the great unbolted door of the frontier! 
 
 Bertrand. Macaire, I'm hungry. 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. 
 I should have left you in the stone -yard at Lyons, and 
 written no passport but my own. Your soul is incor- 
 porate with your stomach. Am I not hungry, too ? 
 My body, thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy 
 that holds the kite-string; my aspirations and designs 
 swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an empire. 
 
 Bertrand. If I could get a full meal and a pound in 
 my pocket I would hold my tongue. 
 
 Macaire. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; 
 and what are we } Who are you } who cares ? Who 
 am I } myself What do we come from .^ an accident. 
 What's a mother } an old woman. A father } the 
 gentleman who beats her. What is crime ? discovery. 
 Virtue ? opportunity. Politics } a pretext. Affection } 
 an affectation. Morality ? an affair of latitude. Pun- 
 ishment ? this side the frontier. Reward ? the other. 
 Property ? plunder. Business ? other people's money 
 
 403 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 — not mine, by God ! and the end of life to live till we 
 are hanged. 
 
 Bertrand. Macaire, I came into this place with my 
 tail between my legs already, and hungry besides; and 
 then you get to flourishing, and it depresses me worse 
 than the chaplain in the jail. 
 
 Macaire. What is a chaplain ? A man they pay to 
 say what you don't want to hear. 
 
 Bertrand. And who are you after all ? and what 
 right have you to talk like that ? By what I can hear, 
 you've been the best part of your life in quod ; and as 
 for me, since I've followed you, what sort of luck have 
 I had ? Sold again ! A boose, a blue fright, two years' 
 hard, and the police hot-foot after us even now. 
 
 Macaire. What is life ? A boose and the police. 
 
 Bertrand. Of course, I know you're clever; I admire 
 you down to the ground, and I'll starve without you. 
 But I can't stand it, and I'm off. Good-bye: good luck 
 to you, old man! and if you want the bundle 
 
 Macaire. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition and, 
 I thank my maker, elegant manners; but rather than be 
 betrayed by such a thing as you are, with the courage 
 of a hare, and the manners, by the Lord Harry, of a 
 jumping-jack {He shows his knife.) 
 
 Bertrand. Put it up, put it up : I'll do what you want. 
 
 Macaire. What is obedience ? fear. So march straight, 
 or look for mischief. It's not bon ton, I know, and 
 far from friendly. But what is friendship ? convenience. 
 But we lose time in this amiable dalliance. Come, 
 now, an effort of deportment: the head thrown back, 
 a jaunty carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow. 
 Thus. Tis better. {Calling.) House, house here! 
 
 404 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Bertrand. Are you mad ? We haven't a brass 
 farthing. 
 
 Macaire. Now ! — But before we leave! 
 
 SCENE IV 
 To these, Dumont 
 
 DuMONT. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for 
 your service ? 
 
 Macaire. My good man, in a roadside inn one can- 
 not look for the impossible. Give one what small wine 
 and what country fare you can produce, 
 
 Dumont. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most 
 auspicious day, a red-letter day for me and my poor 
 house, when all are welcome. Suffer me, with all deli- 
 cacy, to inquire if you are not in somewhat narrow cir- 
 cumstances } 
 
 Macaire. My good creature, you are strangely in er- 
 ror; one is rolling in gold. 
 
 Bertrand. And very hungry. 
 
 Dumont. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had 
 registered a vow that every poor traveller should have 
 his keep for nothing, and a pound in his pocket to help 
 him on his journey. 
 
 Macaire. A pound in his pocket ? 
 
 Bertrand. Keep for nothing ? 
 
 Macaire. Bitten! 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again! 
 
 Dumont. I will send you what we have: poor fare, 
 perhaps, for gentlemen like you. 
 
 405 
 
 Aside, 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Macaire, Bertrand; afterwards Charles, who appears 
 on the gallery, and conies down 
 
 Bertrand. I told you so. Why will you fly so high ? 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, don't crush me. A pound: a 
 fortune! With a pound to start upon — two pounds, 
 for rd have borrowed yours — three months from now 
 I might have been driving in my barouche, with you 
 behind it, Bertrand, in a tasteful livery. 
 
 Bertrand {seeing Charles). Lord, a policeman ! 
 
 Macaire. Steady! What is a policemaa.? Justice's 
 blind eye. {To Charles.) I think, sir, you are in the 
 force ? 
 
 Charles. I am, sir, and it was in that character 
 
 Macaire. Ah, sir, a fine service! 
 
 Charles. It is, sir, and if your papers 
 
 Macaire. You become your uniform. Have you a 
 mother? Ah, well, well! 
 
 Charles. My duty, sir 
 
 Macaire. They tell me one Macaire — is not that his 
 name, Bertrand ? — has broken jail at Lyons ? 
 
 Charles. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that 
 reason 
 
 Macaire. Well, good-bye. {Shaking Charles by 
 the hand and leading him towards the door, L, U. E. ) 
 Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery is . . . {kisses 
 his finger-tips. Exit Charles). And now, what is a 
 policeman ? 
 
 Bertrand. A bobby. 
 
 406 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Macaire, Bertrand; to whom Aline with tray; and 
 afterwards Maids 
 
 Aline {entering with tray, and proceeding to lay table y 
 L.) My men, you are in better luck than usual. It isn't 
 every day you go shares in a wedding feast. 
 
 Macaire. A wedding } Ah, and you're the bride. 
 
 Aline. What makes you fancy that } 
 
 Macaire. Heavens, am I blind ? 
 
 Aline. Well, then, I wish I was. 
 
 Macaire. I take you at the word: have me. 
 
 Aline. You will never be hanged for modesty. 
 
 Macaire. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich 
 and nobly born, 'tis but a clog. I love you. What is 
 your name ? 
 
 Aline. Guess again, and you'll guess wrong. (Enter 
 the other servants with wine baskets.) Here, set the 
 wine down. No, that is the old Burgundy for the wed- 
 ding party. These gentlemen must put up with a dif- 
 ferent bin. (Setting wine before Macaire and Bertrand, 
 who are at table, L.) 
 
 Macaire (drinking). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove! 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again ! 
 
 Macaire. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (Before the ser- 
 vants he exchanges the bottle for the one in front o/Du- 
 mont's place at the head of the other table.) Was it well 
 done? 
 
 Bertrand. Immense. 
 
 Macaire (emptying his glass into Bertrand's). There, 
 Bertrand, you may finish that. Ha! music? 
 
 407 
 
MACAIR.E 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 To these, from the inn, L, U. £., Dumont, Charles, 
 the Curate, the Notary jigging: from the inn, R. U. E., 
 Fiddlers playing and dancing; and through -door L. C, 
 GoRiOT, Ernestine, Peasants, dancing likewise. Air : 
 ''Haste to the Wedding.'' As the parties meet, the music 
 ceases. 
 
 Dumont. Welcome, neighbours! welcome friends! 
 Ernestine, here is my Charles, no longer mine. A 
 thousand welcomes. O the gay day! O the auspicious 
 wedding! (Charles, Ernestine, Dumont, Goriot, Cu- 
 rate, and Notary sit to the wedding feast; Peasants, 
 Fiddlers, and Maids, grouped at back, drinking from 
 the barrel.) O, I must have all happy around me. 
 
 Goriot. Then help the soup. 
 
 Dumont. Give me leave: I must have all happy. 
 Shall these poor gentlemen upon a day like this drink 
 ordinary wine > Not so: I shall drink it. {To Macaire, 
 who is just about to fill his glass.) Don't touch it, sir! 
 Aline, give me that gentleman's bottle and take him 
 mine: with old Dumont's compliments. 
 
 Macaire. What? 
 
 Bertrand. Change the bottle ? 
 
 Macaire. Bitten! 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again. 
 
 Dumont. Yes, all shall be happy. 
 
 Goriot. I tell *ee, help the soup! 
 
 Dumont {begins to help soup. Then, dropping ladle). 
 One word: a matter of detail: Charles is not my son. 
 
 408 
 
 !• Aside. 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 {All exclaim. ) O no, he is not my son. Perhaps I should 
 have mentioned it before. 
 
 Charles. I am not your son, sir ? 
 
 DuMONT. O no, far from it. 
 
 GoRiOT. Then who the devil's son be he ? 
 
 DuMONT. O, I don't know. It's an odd tale, a romantic 
 tale: it may amuse you. It was twenty years ago, 
 when I kept the Golden Head at Lyons : Charles was 
 left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with suffi- 
 cient money to support the child till he should come 
 of age. There was no mark upon the linen, nor any 
 clue but one : an unsigned letter from the father of the 
 child, which he strictly charged me to preserve. It was 
 to prove his identity: he, of course, would know the 
 contents, and he only; so I keep it safe in the third 
 compartment of my cash-box, with the ten thousand 
 francs I've saved for his dowry. Here is the key ; it's 
 a patent key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to- 
 morrow to be married. I did perhaps hope the father 
 would appear: there was a Marquis coming; he wrote 
 me for a room ; I gave him the best, Number Thirteen, 
 which you have all heard of: I did'hope it might be he, 
 for a Marquis, you know, is always genteel. But no, 
 you see. As for me, I take you all to witness I'm as 
 innocent of him as the babe unborn. 
 
 Macaire. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore 
 an M ? 
 
 DuMONT. Pardon me : the markings were cut off. 
 
 Macaire. True. The basket white, I think } 
 
 DuMONT. Brown, brown. 
 
 Macaire. Ah ! brown — a whitey-brown. 
 
 GoRioT. I tell *ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; 
 409 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 but in that case, I'll be danged if he gets my daater. 
 {General consteration.) 
 
 DuMONT. O Goriot, let's have happy faces! 
 
 GoRiOT. Happy faces be danged ! I want to marry 
 my daater; I want your son. But who be this? I 
 don't know, and you don't know, and he don't know. 
 He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be nobody! 
 {Exclamations.) 
 
 Curate. The situation is crepuscular. 
 
 Ernestine. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you too, 
 Charles), I wish to say one word. You gave us leave 
 to fall in love; we fell in love; and as for me, my father, 
 I will either marry Charles, or die a maid. 
 
 Charles. And you, sir, would you rob me in one 
 day of both a father and a wife ? 
 
 Dumont {weeping). Happy faces, happy faces! 
 
 Goriot. I know nothing about robbery ; but she can- 
 not marry without my consent, and that she cannot get. 
 
 Dumont. O dear, O dear! 1 
 
 Aline. What, spoil the wedding ? -r ^7 
 
 n A^Ku ^ } Together. 
 
 Ernestine. O father! ^ 
 
 Charles. Sir, sir, you would not J 
 
 Goriot {exasperated). I wun't, and what's more I 
 shan't. 
 
 Notary. I donno if I make myself clear? 
 
 Dumont. Goriot, do let's have happy faces! 
 
 Goriot. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!! 
 
 Curate. Possibly on application to this conscientious 
 jurist, light may be obtained. 
 
 All. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary! 
 
 Dumont. Now, how about this marriage ? 
 
 Notary. Marriage is a contract, to which there are 
 410 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 two constracting parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. 
 I don no if I make myself clear? 
 
 Aline. Poor lamb ! 
 
 Curate. Silence, my friend; you will expose your- 
 self to misconstruction. 
 
 Macaire {taking the stage). As an entire stranger in 
 this painful scene, will you permit a gentleman and 
 a traveller to interject one word ? There sits the young 
 man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities; here the 
 young maiden, by her own confession bashfully con« 
 senting to the match; there sits that dear old gentle- 
 man, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own now 
 dimmed with sorrow; and here — (may I be allowed 
 to add ?) — here sits this noble Roman, a father like 
 myself, and like myself the slave of duty. Last you 
 have me — Baron Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main de 
 la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the 
 man of delicacy. I find you all — permit me the ex- 
 pression — gravelled. A marriage and an obstacle. 
 Now, what is marriage ? The union of two souls, 
 and, what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two 
 dowries. What is an obstacle ? the devil. And this 
 obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the obstacle seems 
 grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it 
 but a word ? O my friend {to Goriot), you whom I 
 single out as the victim of the same noble failings with 
 myself — of pride of birth, of pride of honesty — O my 
 friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled 
 daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints 
 constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, 
 you will recall with pride this amiable weakness. 
 
 Goriot. I shan't, and what's more I wun't. (Charles 
 411 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 and Ernestine lead htm up stage^ protesting. Att rise, 
 
 except l^OTAKY.) 
 
 DuMONT {front R., shaking hands with Macaire). 
 Sir, you have a noble nature. (Macaire picks his 
 pocket.) Dear me, dear me, and you are rich. 
 
 Macaire. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some 
 wounding offer, and my pride replied. But to be quite 
 frank with you, you behold me here, the Baron Henri- 
 Frederic de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, 
 and between my simple manhood and the infinite these 
 rags are all. 
 
 DuMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my 
 gratitude is useless. For I, too, have delicacy: I un- 
 derstand you could not stoop to take a gift. 
 
 Macaire. A gift ? a small one ? never! 
 
 DuMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer. 
 
 Macaire. Bitten. 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again. 
 
 GoRiOT {taking the stage). But, look'ee here, he can't 
 marry. 
 
 Macaire. Hey ? 
 
 DuMONT. Ah! 
 
 Aline. Heyday! 
 
 Curate. Wherefore? 
 
 Ernestine. Oh! 
 
 Charles. Ah! 
 
 GoRioT. Not without his veyther's consent! And he 
 hasn't got it; and what's more, he can't get it: and 
 what's more, he hasn't got a veyther to get it from. It's 
 the law of France. 
 
 Aline. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed 
 of itself. 
 
 413 
 
 j- Aside. 
 
 Together, 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Together. 
 
 Ernestine. O, couldn't we ask the Notary again ? 
 
 Curate. Indubitably you may ask him. 
 
 Macaire. Can't they marry ? 
 
 DuMONT. Can't he marry ? 
 
 Aline. Can't she marry ? 
 
 Ernestine. Can't we marry ? 
 
 Charles. Can't I marry ? 
 
 Goriot. Bain't I right ? 
 
 Notary. Constracting parties. 
 
 Curate. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may 
 be more perspicuous. 
 
 Goriot. Ay, before heVe time to get at it 
 
 Notary. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sor- 
 row. Possibly by applying justice of peace might 
 afford relief. 
 
 Macaire. Bravo! 
 
 DuMONT. Excellent! 
 
 Charles. Let's go at once! 
 
 Aline. The very thing! 
 
 Ernestine. Yes, this minute! 
 
 Goriot. I'll go. I don't mind getting advice, but I 
 wun't take it. 
 
 Macaire. My friends, one word : I perceive by your 
 downcast looks that you have not recognised the true 
 nature of your responsibility as citizens of time. What 
 is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man. Here 
 is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With 
 a word, I could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to 
 quicken your heels, and send you forth on your ingenu- 
 ous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the 
 physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your 
 catgut! Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots 
 
 4»i 
 
 Together, 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 it in society; forward, girls, and choose me every one 
 the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth 
 our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the 
 uniform of your beloved, and help us dance in your 
 wedding-day. {Dance, in the course of which Macaire 
 picks Dumont's pocket of his keys, seledts the key of the 
 cash-box, and returns the others to his pocket. In the 
 end, all dance out: the wedding-party, headed by Fid- 
 dlers, L. C. ; the Maids and Aline into the inn, R. U. E, 
 Manet Bertrand and Macaire. ) 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 Macaire, Bertrand, who instantly takes a bottle from 
 the wedding-table, and sits with it, L, 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, there's a devfl of a want of a 
 father here. 
 
 Bertrand. Ay, if we only knew where to find him. 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am 
 that father. 
 
 Bertrand. You, Macaire ? you a father ? 
 
 Macaire. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable 
 of anything. {Producing key.) What think you of this ? 
 
 Bertrand. That ? Is it a key ? 
 
 Macaire. Ay, boy, and what besides ? my diploma 
 of respectability, my patent of fatherhood. I prigged 
 it — in the ardour of the dance I prigged it; I change it 
 beyond recognition, thus {twists the handle of the key) ; 
 and now . . . ? Where is my long-lost child ? pro- 
 duce my young policeman! show me my gallant boy! 
 
 Bertrand. I don't understand. 
 
 Macaire. Dear innocence, how should you ? Your 
 414 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 brains are in your fists. Go and keep watch. {He 
 goes into the office and returns with the cash-box.) Keep 
 watch, I say. 
 
 Bertrand. Where? 
 
 Macaire. Everywhere. {He opens box.) 
 
 Bertrand. Gold. 
 
 Macaire. Hands off! Keep watch. (Bertrand at 
 back of stage.) Beat slower, my paternal heart! The 
 third compartment; let me see. 
 
 Bertrand. S'st! (Macaire shuts box.) No; false 
 alarm. 
 
 Macaire. The third compartment. Ay, here t 
 
 Bertrand. S'st! {Same business.) No: fire away. 
 
 Macaire. The third compartment: it must be this. 
 
 Bertrand. S'st ! (Macaire keeps box open, watching 
 Bertrand.) All serene; it's the wind. 
 
 Macaire. Now, see here ! ( He darts his knife into the 
 stage.) I will either be backed as a man should be, or 
 from this minute out I'll work alone. Do you under- 
 stand } I said alone. 
 
 Bertrand. For the Lord's sake, Macaire! 
 
 Macaire. Ay, here it is. {Reading letter.) '* Pre- 
 serve this letter secretly; its terms are known only to 
 you and me: hence when the time comes, I shall re- 
 peat them, and my son will recognise his father." 
 Signed: ** Your Unknown Benefactor." {He hums it 
 over twice and replaces it. Then, fingering the gold. ) 
 Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness ready-made 
 and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The 
 world; the term of ills; the empery of all; the multi- 
 tudinous babble of the change, the sailing from all ports 
 of freighted argosies; music, wine, a palace; the doors 
 
 41=; 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 of the bright theatre, the key of consciences, and love 
 — love's whistle! All this below my itching fingers; 
 and to set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren pres- 
 ent, and condescend once more, naked, into the ring 
 with fortune — Macaire, how few would do it! But 
 you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. 
 No cheap immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty 
 larceny; but swoop at the heart of the position, and 
 clutch all! 
 
 Bertrand [at his shoulder). Halves! 
 
 Macaire. Halves ? {He lochs the box.) Bertrand, !• 
 am a father. {Replaces box in office.) 
 
 Bertrand {looking after him). Well, I — am — 
 damned! 
 
 Drop 
 
 410 
 
ACT 11 
 
 When the curtain rises, the night has come. A hanging cluster of 
 lighted lamps over each table, R. and L. Macaire, R., smoking a 
 cigarette; Bertrand, Z.., with a churchwarden : each with bottle 
 and glass 
 
 SCENE I 
 Macaire, Bertrand 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play 
 with me. Does your pipe draw well ? 
 
 Bertrand. Like a factory chimney. This is my no- 
 tion of life : liquor, a chair, a table to put my feet on, a 
 fine clean pipe, and no police. 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhala- 
 tions ? do you see these blue rings and spirals, weaving 
 their dance, like a round of fairies, on the footless air? 
 
 Bertrand. I see 'em right enough. 
 
 Macaire. Man of little vision, expound me these me- 
 teors! what do they signify, O wooden-head? Clod, 
 of what do they consist ? 
 
 Bertrand. Damned bad tobacco. 
 
 Macaire. I will give you a little course of science. 
 Everything, Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), 
 has three states: a vapour, a liquid, a solid. These are 
 fortune in the vapour: these are ideas. What are ideas ? 
 the protaplasm of wealth. To your head — which, by 
 the way, is a solid, Bertrand — what are they but foul 
 air ? To mine, to my prehensile and constructive intel- 
 
 4n 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 lects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what h'neaments 
 of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a 
 barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, re- 
 spect, and to be honest! 
 
 Bertrand. But what's the sense in honesty ? 
 
 M ACAiRE. The sense ? You see me : Macaire : elegant, im- 
 moral, invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it 
 may surprise you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty. 
 
 Bertrand. No! 
 
 Macaire. The honest man, Bertrand, that God's no- 
 blest work. He carries the bag, my boy. Would you 
 have me define honesty ? the strategic point for theft. 
 Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a year, I'd be honest to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Bertrand. Ah! Don't you wish you may get it! 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against 
 your own — the longest odds I can imagine — that with 
 honesty for my spring-board, I leap through history 
 like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic 
 and immortal. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 To thesCy all the former charadters, less the Notary. 
 The fiddles are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: 
 " O dear, what can the matter be?" in time to which 
 the procession enters. 
 
 Macaire. Well, friends, what cheer ? 
 Aline. No wedding, no wedding! 
 GoRioT. I told 'ee he can't and he can't. 
 DuMONT. Dear, dear me! > Together, 
 
 Ernestine. They won't let us marry. 
 Charles. No wife, no father, no nothing! ^ 
 418 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Curate. The facts have justified the worst anticipa- 
 tions of our absent friend, the Notary. 
 
 Macaire. I perceive I must reveal myself. 
 
 DuMONT. God bless me, no ! 
 
 Macaire. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict 
 incognito, for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor 
 accoutrement; but when I see a face that I can render 
 happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work 
 the change.? Hear me, then, and you {to the others) 
 prepare a smiling countenance. {Repeating.) ** Preserve 
 this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you 
 and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat 
 them, and my son will recognise his father. — Your 
 Unknown Benefactor." 
 
 Dumont. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is 
 your father! 
 
 Charles. Good Lord! {General consternation.) 
 
 Bertrand {aside: smiting his brow), I see it now; 
 sublime! 
 
 Curate. A highly singular eventuality. 
 
 GoRiOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. {Goes up.) 
 
 Macaire. Charles, to my arms! {Business.) Ernestine, 
 your second father waits to welcome you. {Business.) 
 Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. {He doesn't.) 
 And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor 
 thank you for your kindness to his boy .? {A dead 
 pause.) Charles, to my arms! 
 
 Charles. My father, you are still something of a 
 stranger. I hope — er — in the course of time — I hope 
 that may be somewhat mended. But I confess that 1 
 have so long regarded Mr. Dumont 
 
 Macaire. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. 1 
 419 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 have not returned to be a burden on your heart, nor 
 much, comparatively, on your pocket. A place by the 
 fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. {A dead 
 pause.) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from 
 that I fancied when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow 
 rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted mother. 
 
 Charles. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less 
 welcome for your poverty. 
 
 Macaire. Nay, nay — more welcome, more welcome. 
 O, I know your — (business) backs! Besides, my pov- 
 erty is noble. Political . . . Dumont, what are your 
 politics ? 
 
 Dumont. A plain old republican, my lord. 
 
 Macaire. And yours, my good Goriot } 
 
 GoRiOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater. 
 
 Macaire. How strange is the coincidence! The party 
 that I sought to found combined the peculiarities of 
 both : a patriotic enterprise in which I fell. This hum- 
 ble fellow . . . have I introduced him ? You behold in 
 us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Ber- 
 trand, shake hands with my family. (Bertrand is re- 
 buffed by one and the other in dead silence.) 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again! 
 
 Macaire. Charles, to my arms! (Business.) 
 
 Ernestine. Well, but now that he has a father of 
 some kind, cannot the marriage go on ? 
 
 Macaire. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my 
 grandchild on my knees. 
 
 Goriot. Be you that young man's veyther? 
 
 Macaire. Ay, and what a father! 
 
 Goriot. Then all I've got to say is, I shan't and I 
 wun't. 
 
 430 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Macaire. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it 
 is, what a sight is virtue! I came among you in this 
 poor attire to test you; how nobly have you borne the 
 test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend 
 me a good suit ? {Business.) 
 
 SCENE III 
 To these, the Marquis, L, C. 
 
 Marquis. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, 
 once of Lyons ? 
 
 Dumont. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal. 
 
 Marquis. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la 
 Cherte de Medoc. (Sensation.) 
 
 Macaire. Marquis, delighted, I am sure. 
 
 Marquis {to Dumont). I come, as you perceive, un- 
 followed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come 
 {producing notes from breast-pocket) equipped with 
 thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be 
 generous. Can you not guess ? 
 
 Dumont. Not I, my lord. 
 
 Marquis {repeating). " Preserve this letter," etc. 
 
 Macaire. Bitten. 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again (^/^^). {A pause.) 
 
 Aline. Well, I never did ! 
 
 Dumont. Two fathers ! 
 
 Marquis. Two? Impossible. 
 
 Dumont. Not at all. This is the other. 
 
 Marquis. This man ? 
 
 Macaire. This is the man, my lord ; here stands the 
 father; Charles, to my arms! (Charles backs,) 
 
 Dumont. He knew the letter. 
 
 431 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Marquis. Well, but so did I. 
 
 Curate. The judgment of Solomon. 
 
 GoRiOT. What did I tell 'ee ? he can't marry, 
 
 Ernestine. Couldn't they both consent? 
 
 Marquis. But he's my living image. 
 
 Macaire. Mine, Marquis, mine. 
 
 Marquis. My figure, I think ? 
 
 Macaire. Ah, Charles, Charles! 
 
 Curate. We used to think his physiognomy reserr*' 
 bled Dumont's. 
 
 DuMONT. Come to look at him, he's really like Goriot. 
 
 Ernestine. O papa, I hope he's not my brother. 
 
 Goriot. What be talking of? I tell 'ee, he's like our 
 Curate. 
 
 Charles. Gentlemen, my head aches. 
 
 Marquis. I have it : the involuntary voice of nature. 
 Look at me, my son. 
 
 Macaire. Nay, Charles, but look at me. 
 
 Charles. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the small- 
 est natural inclination for either. 
 
 Marquis. Another thought: what was his mother's 
 name ? 
 
 Macaire. What was the name of his mother by vou ? 
 
 Marquis. Sir, you are silenced. 
 
 Macaire. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my 
 boy than compromise his sainted mother. 
 
 Marquis. A thought: twins might explain it: had 
 you not two foundlings ? 
 
 DuMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and judging by the 
 miseries of this evening, I should say, thank God! 
 
 Macaire. My friends, leave me alone with the Mar- 
 quis. It is only a father that can understand a father's 
 
 4a3 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 heart. Bertrand, follow the members of my family. 
 (They troop out, L. U, E. and R, U. £., the fiddlers play- 
 ing. Air : " O dear^ what can the matter he}'') 
 
 SCENE IV 
 Macaire, Marquis 
 
 Marquis. Well, sir.^ 
 
 Macaire. My lord, I feel for you. {Bminess, They 
 sit, R.) 
 
 Marquis. And now, sir ? 
 
 Macaire. The bond that joins us is remarkable and 
 touching. 
 
 Marquis. Well, sir? 
 
 Macaire {touching him on the breast). You have there 
 thirty thousand francs. 
 
 Marquis. Well, sir? 
 
 Macaire. I was but thinking of the inequalities of 
 life, my lord : that I who, for all you know, may be the 
 father of your son, should have nothing; and that you 
 who, for all I know, may be the father of mine, should 
 be literally bulging with bank notes. . . . Where do 
 you keep them at night ? 
 
 Marquis. Under my pillow. I think it rather in- 
 genious. 
 
 Macaire. Admirably so ! I applaud the device. 
 
 MARauis. Well, sir? 
 
 Macaire. Do you snuff, my lord ? 
 
 MARauis. No, sir, I do not. 
 
 Macaire. My lord, I am a poor man. 
 
 Marquis. Well, sir ? and what of that ? 
 
 Macaire. The affections, my lord, are priceless. 
 423 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Money will not buy them ; or, at least, it takes a great 
 deal. 
 
 Marquis. Sir, your sentiments do you honour. 
 
 Macaire. My lord, you are rich. 
 
 MARQ.UIS. Well, sir ? 
 
 Macaire. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am 
 I, my lord ; and there, if I may so express myself, are 
 you. Each has the father's heart, and there we are 
 equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again 
 we are on a par. But, my lord — and here we come to 
 the inequality, and what I consider the unfairness of the 
 thing — you have thirty thousand francs, and 1, my 
 lord, have not a rap. You mark me ? not a rap, my 
 lord ! My lord, put yourself in my position : consider 
 what must be my feelings, my desires; and — hey? 
 
 Marciuis. 1 fail to grasp. . . . 
 
 Macaire (with irritation). My dear man, there is the 
 door of the house; here am I; there (touching Makqims 
 on the breast) are thirty thousand francs. Well, now ? 
 
 Marquis. I give you my word of honour, sir, 1 gather 
 nothing; my mind is quite unused to such prolonged 
 exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not mine; if he be 
 mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or 
 both of ours ... in short, my mind. . . . 
 
 Macaire. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand 
 francs upon the table ? 
 
 Marquis. I fail to grasp c . . but ifit will in anyway 
 oblige you. . . . (Does so.) 
 
 Macaire. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; 
 you see? I put them in my pocket; you follow me? 
 This is my hat; here is my stick; and here is my — my 
 friend's bundle. 
 
 4>4 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 MARauis. But that is my cloak. 
 
 Macaire. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort 
 of your lordship's mind. If I were to go out of that 
 door, with the full intention — follow me close — the 
 full intention of never being heard of more, what would 
 you do ? 
 
 Marquis. I ! — send for the police. 
 
 Macaire. Take your money! {Dashing down the 
 notes.) Man, if I met you in a lane ! {He drops his head 
 upon the table.) 
 
 MARauis. The poor soul is insane. The other man 
 whom I suppose to be his keeper, is very much to 
 blame. 
 
 Macaire {raising his head), I have a light! {To Mar- 
 quis.) With invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot 
 struggle. I pass you by; I leave you gaping by the 
 wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny of 
 such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster I 
 
 MARauis. Poor fellow. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Macaire, to whom Bertrand. Afterwards Dumont 
 
 Bertrand. Well? 
 
 Macaire. Bitten. 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again. 
 
 Macaire. Had he the wit of a lucifer match! But 
 what can gods or men against stupidity ? Still, I have 
 a trick. Where is that damned old man ? 
 
 Dumont {entering). I hear you want me. 
 
 Macaire. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad. 
 
 Dumont. Dear me, what is wrong ? 
 425 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Macaire. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son ? 
 
 DuMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs. 
 
 Macaire. It's a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, 
 I bury my old hopes, my old paternal tenderness. 
 
 Dumont. What ? is he not your son ? 
 
 Macaire. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims 
 my boy. I will not seek to deny that he attempted to 
 corrupt me, or that I spurned his gold. It was thirty 
 thousand. 
 
 Dumont. Noble soul ! 
 
 Macaire. One has a heart ... He spoke, Dumont, 
 that proud noble spoke, of the advantages to our be- 
 loved Charles ; and in my father's heart a voice arose, 
 louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish ? The 
 voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to 
 begone. 
 
 Dumont. To begone ? to go ? 
 
 Macaire. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, 
 Dumont. To leave my son to marry, and be rich and 
 happy as the son of another; to creep forth myself, old, 
 penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies 
 of heaven and the rebuffs of the police. 
 
 Dumont. This is what I had looked for at your hands. 
 Noble, noble man! 
 
 Macaire. One has a heart . . . and yet, Dumont, it 
 can hardly have escaped your penetration that if I were 
 to shift from this hostelry without a farthing, and leave 
 my offspring to wallow — literally — among millions, I 
 should play the part of little better than an ass. 
 
 Dumont. But 1 had thought ... I had fancied . . . 
 
 Macaire. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to 
 impose upon my simplicity. What you did think was 
 
 426 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for the 
 sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest 
 — I mean, for his interest — no, I mean, for his own — 
 well, anyway, in order to keep up the general atmos- 
 phere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this 
 dowry to the Baron Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main 
 de la Tonnerre de Brest. 
 
 Dumont. Noble, O 
 noble ! I Together : each shaking 
 
 Bertrand. Beautiful, [ him by the hand, 
 
 O beautiful! 
 
 Dumont. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For 
 whom could it more fittingly be set aside than for his 
 noble father ? I will give it you at once. 
 
 Bertrand. At once, at once! 
 
 Macaire (aside to Bertrand). Hang on. {Aloud.) 
 Charles, Charles, my lost boy! {He fatts weeping at L. 
 table. Dumont enters the office, and brings down cash- 
 box to table R. He feels in all his pockets : Bertrand 
 from behind him making signs to Macaire, which the 
 latter does not see.) 
 
 Dumont. That's strange. I can't find the key. It's 
 a patent key. 
 
 Bertrand {behind Dumont, making signs to Macaire.) 
 The key, he can't find the key. 
 
 Macaire. O yes, I remember. I heard it drop. {Drops 
 key.) And here it is before my eyes. 
 
 Dumont. That ? That's yours. I saw it drop. 
 
 Macaire. I give you my word of honour I heard it 
 fall five minutes back. 
 
 Dumont. But I saw it. 
 
 Macaire. Impossible. It must be yours. 
 437 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 DuMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in 
 
 your pocket. 
 
 Macaire. Bitten. {Aside.) 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again (aside), . . . You forget, 
 Baron, it's the key of my valise; I gave it you to keep 
 in consequence of the hole in my pocket. 
 
 Macaire. True, true; and that explains. 
 
 DuMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do 
 is to find mine. It's a patent key. You heard it drop. 
 
 Macaire. Distinctly. 
 
 Bertrand. So I did; distinctly. 
 
 DuMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, 
 Charles, everybody, come here and look for my key I 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 To these with candles, all the former characters 
 
 except Fiddlers, Peasants, and Notary. 
 
 They hunt for the key 
 
 DuMONT. It's bound to be here. We all heard it 
 drop. 
 
 MARauis {with Bertrand's bundle). Is this it ? 
 
 All {with fury). No. 
 
 Bertrand. Hands off", that's my luggage. {Hunt 
 resumed.) 
 
 Dumont. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard 
 anything. 
 
 Marquis. By the way {all start up), what are we 
 looking for? 
 
 All {with fury). Oh I! 
 
 Dumont. Will you have the kindness to find my 
 key ? ( Hunt resumed, ) 
 
 4^8 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Curate. What description of a key 
 
 DuMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key! 
 
 Macaire. I have it. Here it is ! 
 
 All {with relief). Ah!! 
 
 DuMONT. That? What do you mean? That's 
 yours. 
 
 Macaire. Pardon me. 
 
 DUMONT. It is. 
 
 Macaire. It isn't. 
 
 DuMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle. 
 
 Macaire. It can't be mine, and so it must be yours. 
 
 DuMONT. It is NOT. Feel in your pockets. {To the 
 others. ) Will you have the kindness to find my patent 
 key? 
 
 All. Oh ! ! {Hunt resumed. ) 
 
 Macaire. Ah, well, you're right. {He slips key into 
 DvMOur' s pocket.) An idea: suppose you felt in your 
 pocket ? 
 
 All {rising). Yes ! Suppose you did ! 
 
 DuMONT. I will not feel in my pockets. How could 
 it be there ? It's a patent key. This is more than any 
 man can bear. First, Charles is one man's son, and 
 then he's another's, and then he's nobody's, and be 
 damned to him! And then there's my key lost; and 
 then there's your key ! What is your key ? Where is 
 your key ? Where isn't it ? And why is it like mine, 
 only mine's a patent? The long and short of it is this: 
 that I'm going to bed, and that you're all going to bed, 
 and that I refuse to hear another word upon the sub- 
 ject or upon any subject. There ! 
 
 Macaire. Bitten. 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again. 
 
 429 
 
 > Aside. 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 (Aline and Maids extinguish hanging lamps aver ta^ 
 bles, R. and L. Stage lighted only by guests' candles.) 
 
 Charles. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest 
 till I embrace my honoured parent. Which is it to be ? 
 
 Macaire. Charles, to my 
 
 DuMONT. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; 
 there has been too much of this sickening folly. To 
 bed!!! (Exit violently R. U. E. All the charadlers 
 troop slowly upstairs, talking in dumb show. Bertrand 
 and Macaire remain in front C, watching them go.) 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again, captain ? 
 
 Macaire. Ay, they will have it. 
 
 Bertrand. It? What? 
 
 Macaire. The worst, Bertrand. What is man? — a 
 beast of prey. An hour ago, and I'd have taken a 
 crust, and gone in peace. But no: they would trick 
 and juggle, curse them; they would wriggle and cheat! 
 Well, 1 accept the challenge : war to the knife. 
 
 Bertrand. Murder ? 
 
 Macaire. What is murder ? A legal term for a man 
 dying. Call it Fate, and that's philosophy; call me 
 Providence, and you talk religion. Die ? Why, that 
 is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; 
 we are all as good as dead already, we hang so close 
 upon the brink: touch a button, and the strongest falls 
 
 in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take you 
 
 (grappling him). 
 
 Bertrand. Macaire — O no ! 
 
 Macaire. Fool! would 1 harm a fly, when I had no- 
 thing to gain ? As the butcher with the sheep, I kill 
 to live; and where is the difference between man and 
 mutton? pride and a tailor's bill. Murder? I know 
 
 430 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 who made that name — a man crouching from the 
 knife 1 Selfishness made it — the aggregated egotism 
 called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as 
 great. Has he money ? Have I none — great powers, 
 none ? Well, then, I fatten and manure my life with 
 his. 
 
 Bertrand. You frighten me. Who is it ? 
 
 Macaire. Mark well. {The Marquis opens the door 
 of Number Thirteen, and the rest, clustering round, hid 
 him good-night. As they begin to disperse along the 
 gallery he enters and shuts the door,) Out, out. brief 
 candle! That man is doomed. 
 
 Drop 
 
 43Z 
 
ACT m 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Macaire, Bertrand 
 
 /Is the curtain rises, the stage is dark and empty, En^ 
 ter Macaire, L. U, £., with lantern. He looks about, 
 
 lAxckXKE {calling off). S'st! 
 
 Bertrand {entering L. U. E. ). It's creeping dark. 
 
 Macaire. Blinding dark; and a good job. 
 
 Bertrand. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold. 
 
 Macaire. Work, work will warm you: to your keys. 
 
 Bertrand. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You'll not kill 
 him ; let's have no bloodshed. 
 
 Macaire. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: 
 you have keys and you have experience; up that stair, 
 and pick me the lock of that man's door. Pick me the 
 lock of that man's door. 
 
 Bertrand. May I take the light ? 
 
 Macaire. You may not. Go. (Bertrand mounts the 
 stairs, and is seen picking the lock of Number Thirteen. ) 
 The earth spins eastward, and the day is at the door. 
 Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be afoot, 
 the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet, half an hour 
 of night, the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! 
 at a touch the gas-jet of the universe turned on ; and 
 
 4^2 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Up with the sun gets the providence of honest people, 
 puts off his night-cap, throws up his window, stares 
 out of house — and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. 
 Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and 
 rich. If yon fool — my fool — would but miscarry, if 
 the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could 
 intervene, kill both, by heaven — both!— cry murder 
 with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold. 
 For, Bertrand dead 
 
 Bertrand {from above), S'st, Macaire! 
 
 Macaire. Is it done, dear boy } Come down. (Ber- 
 trand descends.) Sit down beside this light: this is 
 your ring of safety, budge not beyond — the night is 
 crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like 
 a jelly if you must; but remember men are my con- 
 cern; and at the creak of a man's foot, hist! {Sharpen- 
 ing his knife upon his sleeve. ) What is a knife ? A plain 
 man's sword. 
 
 Bertrand. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife! 
 
 Macaire. My name is Self- Defence. {He goes up- 
 stairs and enters Number Thirteen. ) 
 
 Bertrand. He's in. I hear a board creak. What 
 a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, 
 my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The 
 night's as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he 
 cannot help but hear him; and then — O Macaire, Ma- 
 caire, come back to me. It's death, and it's death, 
 and it's death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, 
 Macaire to die.? I'd rather starve, I'd rather perish, 
 than either: I'm not fit, I'm not fit, for either! Why, 
 how's this ? I want to cry. {A stroke, and a groan, 
 from above.) God Almighty, one of them's gone! 
 
 433 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 (He falls with his head on table, R. Macaire appears 
 at the top of the stairs, descends, comes airily forward 
 and touches him on the shoulder. Bertrand, with a 
 cry, turns and falls upon his neck.) O, O, and I 
 thought I had lost him. {Day breaking. ) 
 
 Macaire. The contrary, dear boy. {He produces 
 notes. ) 
 
 Bertrand. What was it like ? 
 
 Macaire. Like ? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man. 
 
 Bertrand. Blood! . . . (Dead! He falls at table 
 sobbing. Macaire divides the notes into two parts; on 
 the smaller he wipes the bloody knife, and folding the 
 stains inward, thrusts the notes into Bertrand's/j^^.) 
 
 Macaire. What is life without the pleasures of the table ! 
 
 Bertrand {taking and pocketing notes). Macaire, 
 I can't get over it. 
 
 Macaire. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. 
 Don't hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; 
 pick me that cash-box; and let's get the damned house 
 fairly cleared. 
 
 Bertrand. I can't. Did he bleed much ? 
 
 Macaire. Bleed ? Must I bleed you ? To work, or 
 I'm dangero.us. 
 
 Bertrand. It's all right, Macaire; I'm going. 
 
 Macaire. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. 
 {Full daylight: lights up. Macaire blows out lantern.) 
 
 Bertrand. Where's the key ? 
 
 Macaire. Key ? I tell you to pick it. 
 
 Bertrand {with the box). But it's a patent lock. 
 Where is the key ? You had it. 
 
 Macaire. Will you pick that lock ? 
 
 Bertrand. I can't: it's a patent. Where's the key? 
 434 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Macaire. If you will have it, I put it back in that old 
 ass's pocket. 
 Bertrand. Bitten, I think. (Macaike dancing mad.) 
 
 SCENE II 
 To these, DuMONT 
 
 DuMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the 
 worm, catching the worm ? 
 
 Macaire. Good-morn-^ 
 ing, good-morning! I Both sitting on the table 
 
 Bertrand. Early birds, [ and dissembling box. 
 early birds. ^ 
 
 DuMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I 
 found that key. 
 
 Macaire. No! 
 
 Bertrand. O! 
 
 DuMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it 
 was my key that had the twisted handle. 
 
 Macatre. I told you so. 
 
 DuMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the 
 cash-box. Hallo! what's that your sitting on ? 
 
 Bertrand. Nothing. 
 
 Macaire. The table! I beg your pardon. 
 
 Dumont. Why, it's my cash-box! 
 
 Macaire. Why, so it is ! 
 
 Dumont. It's very singular. 
 
 Macaire. Diabolishly singular. 
 
 Bertrand. Early worms, early worms! 
 
 Dumont {blowing in key). Well, I suppose you are 
 still willing to begone } 
 
 Macaire. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, 
 435 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 I may say, for time; for though it had quite escaped 
 my memory, I have an appointment in Turin with a 
 lady of title. 
 
 DuMONT {at box). It's very odd. (Blows in hey.) 
 it's a singular thing {blowing), key won't turn. It's a 
 patent. Some one must have tampered with the lock 
 {blowing). It's strangely singular, it's singularly sin- 
 gular! I've shown this key to commercial gentlemen^ 
 all the way from Paris: they never saw a better keyl 
 {more business). Well {giving it up and looking re^ 
 proachfutty on key), that's pretty singular. 
 
 Macaire. Let me try. {He tries, and flings down 
 the key with a curse.) Bitten. 
 
 Bertrand. Sold again. 
 
 DuMONT {picking up key). It's a patent key. 
 
 Macaire. {to Bertrand). The game's up: we must 
 save the swag. {To Dumont.) Sir, since your key, 
 on which I invoke the blight of Egypt, has once more 
 defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of 
 yesterday's distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. 
 From Turin you shall receive the address of my banker, 
 and may prosperity attend your ventures. ( To Ber- 
 trand.) Now, boy! (To Dumont.) Embrace my fath- 
 erless child! farewell! (Macaire and Bertrand turn to 
 go off, and are met in the door by the Gendarmes.) 
 
 SCENE III 
 To these, the Brigadier and Gendarmes 
 
 Brigadier. Let no man leave the house. 
 Macaire. Bitten. 
 Bertrand. Sold again. 
 
 436 
 
 Y Aside. 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 DuMONT. Welcome, old friend! 
 
 Brigadier. It is not the friend that comes; it is the 
 Brigadier. Summon your guests: I must investigate 
 their passports. I am in pursuit of a notorious male- 
 factor, Robert Macaire. 
 
 DuMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire 
 ^nd his accomplice had been arrested and condemned. 
 
 Brigadier. They were, but they have once more es- 
 caped for the moment, and justice is indefatigable. 
 {He sits at table R.) Dumont, a bottle of white wine. 
 
 Macaire {to Dumont). My excellent friend, I will 
 <iischarge your commission, and return with all speed. 
 {Going. ) 
 
 Brigadier. Halt! 
 
 Macaire {returning: as if he saw Brigadier for the 
 first time). Ha ? a member of the force } Charmed, 
 I'm sure. But you misconceive me: I return at once, 
 and my friend remains behind to answer for me. 
 
 Brigadier. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall 
 deal with you in due time. Dumont, that bottle. 
 
 Macaire. Sir, my friend and I, who are students 
 of character, would grasp the opportunity to share and 
 — may one add ? — to pay the bottle. Dumont, three! 
 
 Bertrand. For God's sake! {Enter Aline and 
 Maids.) 
 
 Macaire. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler 
 way, am I. Your knowledge of the criminal classes 
 naturally tempts one to pursue so interesting an ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Brigadier. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your 
 health. 
 
 Macaire. Will not these brave fellows join us ? 
 
 437 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Brigadier. They are on duty ; but what matters ? 
 
 Macaire. My dear sir, what is duty ? duty is my eye. 
 
 Brigadier (solemnly). And Betty Martin. (Gen- 
 darmes sit at table. ) 
 
 Macaire to Bertrand). Dear friend, sit down. 
 
 Bertrand {sitting down). O Lord ! 
 
 Brigadier (to Macaire). You seem to be a gentleman 
 of considerable intelligence. 
 
 Macaire. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one 
 has loved, and one remembers: that is all. One's Lives 
 of Celebrated Criminals has met with a certain success, 
 and one is ever in quest of fresh material. 
 
 DuMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my 
 patent key. 
 
 Brigadier. This gentleman is speaking. 
 
 Macaire. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. 
 This Macaire is not personally known to you ? 
 
 Brigadier. Are you connected with justice ? 
 
 Macaire. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor 
 author. 
 
 Brigadier (with glass). Justice is the very devil. 
 
 Macaire. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to 
 say, have an appointment in Lyons, or I could spend 
 my life in this society. Charge your glasses : one hour 
 to madness and to joy! What is to-morrow? the 
 enemy of to-day. Wine ? the bath of life. One mo- 
 ment : I find I have forgotten my watch. (He makes 
 for the door. ) 
 
 Brigadier. Halt! 
 
 Macaire. Sir, what is this jest ? 
 
 Brigadier. Sentry at the door. Your passports. 
 
 Macaire. My good man, with all the pleasure in 
 438 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 life. {Gives papers. The Brigadier puts on spe^acles^ 
 and examines them.) 
 
 Bertrand {risingy and passing round to Macaire's 
 other side). It's life and death: they must soon find it. 
 
 Macaire {aside). Don't I know ? My heart's like 
 fire in my body. 
 
 Brigadier. Your name is ? 
 
 Macaire. It is; one's name is not unknown. 
 
 Brigadier. Justice exacts your name. 
 
 Macaire. Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main de la 
 Tonnerre de Brest. 
 
 Brigadier. Your profession ? 
 
 Macaire. Gentleman. 
 
 Brigadier. No, but what is your trade ? 
 
 Macaire. I am an analytical chymist. 
 
 Brigadier. Justice is inscrutable. Your papers are 
 in order. {To Bertrand.) Now, sir, and yours? 
 
 Bertrand. I feel kind of ill. 
 
 Macaire. Bertrand, this gentleman addresses you. 
 He is not one of us; in other scenes, in the gay and 
 giddy world of fashion, one is his superior. But to- 
 day he represents the majesty of law; and as a citizen 
 it is one's pride to do him honour. 
 
 Brigadier. Those are my sentiments. 
 
 Bertrand. I beg your pardon, I {Gives papers, ) 
 
 Brigadier. Your name ? 
 
 Bertrand. Napoleon. 
 
 Brigadier. What? In your passport it is written 
 Bertrand. 
 
 Bertrand. It's this way: I was born Bertrand, and 
 then I took the name of Napoleon, and I mostly always 
 call myself either Napoleon or Bertrand. 
 
 439 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Brigadier. The truth is always best Your pro- 
 fession ? 
 
 Bertrand. I am an orphan. 
 
 Brigadier. What the devil! {To Macaire.) Is your 
 friend an idiot ? 
 
 Macaire. Pardon me, he is a poet. 
 
 Brigadier. Poetry is a great hindrance to the ends 
 of justice. Well, take your papers. 
 
 Macaire. Then we may go ? 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 To these, Charles, who is seen on the gallery, going to 
 
 the door of Number Thirteen. Afterwards 
 
 all the characters but the Notary 
 
 and the MARauis 
 
 Brigadier. One glass more. (Bertrand touches Ma- 
 caire, and points to Charles, who enters Number Thir- 
 teen. ) 
 
 Macaire. No more, no more, no more. 
 
 Brigadier {rising and taking Macaire by the arm), I 
 stipulate! 
 
 Macaire. Engagement in Turin! 
 
 Brigadier. Turin ? 
 
 Macaire. Lyons, Lyons! 
 
 Bertrand. For God's sake. . . , 
 
 Brigadier. Well, good-bye! 
 
 Macaire. Good-bye, good 
 
 Charles {from within). Murder! Help! {Appear- 
 ing.) Help here! The Marquis is murdered. 
 
 Brigadier. Stand to the door. A man up there. {A 
 Gendarme hurries up staircase into Number Thirteen, 
 
 440 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 Charles following him. Enter on both sides of gallery 
 the remaining characters of the piece, except the Notary 
 and the Marquis.) 
 
 Macaire. Bitten, by God ! \ a -/i 
 
 Bertrand. Lost! > 
 
 Brigadier (to Dumont). John Paul Dumont, I arrest 
 you. 
 
 Dumont. Do your duty, officer. I can answer for 
 myself and my own people. 
 
 Brigadier. Yes, but these strangers ? 
 
 Dumont. They are strangers to me. 
 
 Macaire. I am an honest man: I stand upon my 
 rights: search me; or search this person, of whom I 
 know too little. {Smiting his brow.) By heaven, 1 see 
 
 it all! This morning {To Bertrand.) How, sir, 
 
 did you dare to flaunt your booty in my very face .^ 
 {To Brigadier.) He showed me notes; he was up ere 
 day; search him, and you'll find. There stands the 
 murderer. 
 
 Bertrand. O, Macaire! {He is seiT^ed and searched 
 and the notes are found. ) 
 
 Brigadier. There is blood upon the notes. Hand- 
 cuffs. (Macaire edging towards the door.) 
 
 Bertrand. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. 
 (Macaire is stopped by sentry, and comes front, R.) 
 
 Charles {re- appearing). Stop, I know the truth. 
 {He comes down.) Brigadier, my father is not dead. 
 He is not even dangerously hurt. He has spoken. 
 There is the would-be assassin. 
 
 Macaire. Hell! {He darts across to the staircase, 
 and turns on the second step, flashing out the knife.) 
 Back, hounds! {He springs up the stair, and confronts 
 
 441 
 
MACAIRE 
 
 them from the top. ) Fools, I am Robert Macaire ! {As 
 Macaire turns to flee, he is met by the gendarme coming 
 out of Number Thirteen; he stands an instant checked, 
 is shot from the stage, and falls headlong backward 
 down the stair. Bertrand, with a cry, breaks from the 
 gendarmes, kneels at his side, and raises his head.) 
 
 Bertrand. Macaire, Macaire, forgive me. I didn't 
 blab; you know I didn't blab. 
 
 Macaire. Sold again, old boy. Sold for the last 
 time; at least, the last time this side death. Death — 
 what is death ? {Jie dies.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 44» 
 
FABLES 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 The fable, as a form of literary art, had at all times a great attraction 
 for Mr. Stevenson; and in an early review of Lord Lytton's " Fables 
 in Song " he attempted to define some of its proper aims and methods. 
 To this class of work, according to his conception of the matter, 
 belonged essentially several of his own semi-supernatural stories, 
 such as "Will of the Mill," " Markheim," and even ''Jekyll and 
 Hyde " ; in the composition of which there was combined with the 
 dream element, in at least an equal measure, the element of moral 
 allegory or apologue. He was accustomed also to try his hand oc- 
 casionally on the composition of fables more strictly so called, and 
 cast in the conventional brief and familiar form. By the winter of 
 1887-88 he had enough of these by him, together with a few others 
 running to greater length, and conceived in a more mystic and leg- 
 endary vein, to enable him, as he thought, to see his way towards 
 making a book of them. Such a book he promised to Messrs. 
 Longman on the occasion of a visit paid him in New York by a 
 member of the firm in the spring of 1888. Then came his voyage 
 in the Pacific and residence at Samoa. Among the multitude of 
 new interests and images which filled his mind during the last six 
 years of his life, he seems to have given little thought to the pro- 
 posed book of fables. One or two, however, as will be seen, were 
 added to the collection during this period. That collection, as it 
 stood at the time of his death, was certainly not what its author 
 had meant it to be. Whether it would have seen the light had he 
 lived is doubtful : but after his death it seemed to his representatives 
 of sufficient interest to be handed to Messrs. Longman, in part ful- 
 filment of his old pledge to them, for publication in their Magazine. 
 Its inclusion in the present collected edition of his works naturally 
 follows. 
 
 S. C 
 
THE PERSONS OF THE TALE 
 
 AFTER the 32nd chapter of Treasure Island, two 
 . of the puppets strolled out to have a pipe before 
 business should begin again, and met in an open place 
 not far from the story. 
 
 "Good morning, Cap'n," said the first, with a man- 
 o'-war salute and a beaming countenance. 
 
 "Ah, Silver! " grunted the other. " You're in a bad 
 way. Silver." 
 
 "Now, Cap'n Smollett," remonstrated Silver, "dooty 
 is dooty, as I knows, and none better; but we're off 
 dooty now; and I can't see no call to keep up the 
 morality business." 
 
 "You're a damned rogue, my man," said the 
 Captain. 
 
 "Come, come, Cap'n, be just," returned the other. 
 ^'There's no call to be angry with me in earnest. 
 I'm ony a chara'ter in a sea story. I don't really 
 exist." 
 
 "Well, I don't really exist either," says the Captain, 
 " which seems to meet that." 
 
 " I wouldn t set no limits to what a virtuous char- 
 ii'ter might consider argument," responded Silver. 
 
 447 
 
FABLES 
 
 *' But I'm the villain of this tale, I am; and speaking as 
 one seafaring man to another, what I want to know is, 
 what's the odds?" 
 
 ** Were you never taught your catechism ? " said the 
 Captain. *' Don't you know there's such a thing as an 
 Author?" 
 
 "Such a thing as a Author?" returned John, deri- 
 sively. "And who better'n me? And the p'int is, if 
 the Author made you, he made Long John, and he 
 made Hands, and Pew, and George Merry — not that 
 George is up to much, for he's little more'n a name; 
 and he made Flint, what there is of him; and he made 
 this here mutiny, you keep such a work about; and he 
 had Tom Redruth shot; and — well, if that's a Author,, 
 give me Pew!" 
 
 "Don't you believe in a future state?" said Smollett.. 
 **Do you think there's nothing but the present story- 
 paper?" 
 
 "I don't rightly know for that," said Silver; "and f 
 don't see what it's got to do with it, anyway. What 
 I know is this : if there is sich a thing as a Author, I'm 
 his favourite chara'ter. He does me fathoms better'n 
 he does you — fathoms, he does. And he likes doing 
 me. He keeps me on deck mostly all the time, crutch 
 and all; and he leaves you measling in the hold, where 
 nobody can't see you, nor wants to, and you may lay 
 to that! If there is a Author, by thunder, but he's on 
 my side, and you may lay to it! " 
 
 "I see he's giving you a long rope," said the Cap- 
 tain. ** But that can't change a man's convictions. I 
 know the Author respects me ; I feel it in my bones ; 
 
 448 
 
THE PERSONS OF THE TALE 
 
 when you and I had that talk at the blockhouse door, 
 who do you think he was for, my man ? " 
 
 **And don't he respect me?" cried Silver. **Ah, 
 you should 'a* heard me putting down my mutiny, 
 George Merry and Morgan and that lot, no longer ago'n 
 last chapter; you'd 'a' heard something then! You'd 
 *a' seen what the Author thinks o' me! But come now, 
 do you consider yourself a virtuous chara'ter clean 
 through?'* 
 
 ** God forbid! " said Captain Smollett solemnly. *'I 
 am a man that tries to do his duty, and makes a mess 
 of it as often as not. I'm not a very popular man at 
 home, Silver, I'm afraid," and the Captain sighed. 
 
 " Ah," says Silver. *' Then how about this sequel of 
 yours ? Are you to be Cap'n Smollett just the same as 
 ever, and not very popular at home, says you! And if 
 so, why it's Treasure Island over again, by thunder; 
 and I'll be Long John, and Pew'll be Pew; and we'll 
 have another mutiny, as like as not. Or are you to be 
 somebody else ? And if so, why, what the better are 
 you ? and what the worse am I ? " 
 
 "Why, look here, my man," returned the Captain, 
 ** 1 can't understand how this story comes about at all, 
 can 1 ? I can't see how you and I, who don't exist, 
 should get to speaking here, and smoke our pipes, for 
 all the world like reality ? Very well, then, who am I 
 to pipe up with my opinions ? I know the Author's on 
 the side of good ; he tells me so, it runs out of his pen 
 as he writes. Well, that's all I need to know; I'll take 
 my chance upon the rest." 
 
 **It's a fact he seemed to be against George Merry," 
 449 
 
FABLES 
 
 Silver admitted musingly. "But George is little more'n 
 a name at the best of it," he added, brightening. "And 
 to get into soundings for once. What is this good ? 
 I made a mutiny, and I been a gentleman o' fortune; 
 well, but by all stories, you ain't no such saint. I'm a 
 man that keeps company very easy; even by your own 
 account, you ain't, and to my certain knowledge, you're 
 a devil to haze. Which is which ? Which is good, 
 and which bad ? Ah, you tell me that! Here we are 
 in stays, and you may lay to it! " 
 
 "We're none of us perfect," replied the Captain. 
 "That's a fact of religion, my man. All I can say is, I 
 try to do my duty; and if you try to do yours, I can't 
 compliment you on your success." 
 
 "And so you was the judge, was you ? " said Silver, 
 derisively. 
 
 "I would be both judge and hangman for you, my 
 man, and never turn a hair," returned the Captain. 
 " But 1 get beyond that: it mayn't be sound theology, 
 but it's common sense, that what is good is useful too 
 — or there and thereabout, for I don't set up to be a 
 thinker. Now, where would a story go to, if there 
 were no virtuous characters ? " 
 
 " If you go to that," replied Silver, "where would a 
 story begin, if there wasn't no villains.^" 
 
 "Well, that's pretty much my thought," said Captain 
 Smollett. " The author has to get a story; that's what 
 he wants ; and to get a story, and to have a man like 
 the doctor (say) given a proper chance, he has to put 
 in men like you and Hands. But he's on the right 
 side; and you mind your eye! You're not through 
 this story yet; there's trouble coming for you." 
 
 450 
 
THE PERSONS OF THE TALE 
 
 *' What'll you bet ? " asked John. 
 
 '*Much I care if there ain't," returned the Captain. 
 " I'm glad enough to be Alexander Smollett, bad as 
 he is; and I thank my stars upon my knees that Tm 
 not Silver. But there's the ink-bottle opening. To 
 quarters ! " 
 
 And indeed the Author was just then beginning to 
 write the words : 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 451 
 
II 
 
 THE SINKING SHIP 
 
 "Sir," said the first lieutenant, bursting into the 
 Captain's cabin, **the ship is going down." 
 
 ''Very well, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain; "but 
 that is no reason for going about half-shaved. Exercise 
 your mind a moment, Mr. Spoker, and you will see 
 that to the philosophic eye there is nothing new in our 
 position: the ship (if she is to go down at all) may be 
 said to have been going down since she was launched." 
 
 "She is settling fast," said the first lieutenant, as he 
 returned from shaving. 
 
 " Fast, Mr. Spoker ? " asked the Captain. "The ex- 
 pression is a strange one, for time (if you will think 
 of it) is only relative." 
 
 "Sir," said the lieutenant, "I think it is scarcely 
 worth while to embark in such a discussion when we 
 shall all be in Davy Jones's Locker in ten minutes." 
 
 "By parity of reasoning," returned the Captain gen- 
 tly, "it would never be worth while to begin any 
 inquiry of importance; the odds are always over- 
 whelming that we must die before we shall have 
 brought it to an end. You have not considered, Mr. 
 Spoker, the situation of man," said the Captain, smiling 
 and shaking his head. 
 
 452 
 
THE SINKING SHIP 
 
 **I am much more engaged in considering the posi- 
 tion of the ship," said Mr. Spoken 
 
 ** Spoken like a good officer," replied the Captain, 
 laying his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. 
 
 On deck they found the men had broken into the 
 spirit-room, and were fast getting drunk. 
 
 **My men," said the Captain, ''there is no sense in 
 this. The ship is going down, you will tell me, in ten 
 minutes: well, and what then? To the philosophic 
 eye, there is nothing new in our position. All our 
 lives long, we may have been about to break a blood- 
 vessel or to be struck by lightning, not merely in ten 
 minutes, but in ten seconds; and that has not pre- 
 vented us from eating dinner, no, nor from putting 
 money in the Savings Bank. I assure you, with my 
 hand on my heart, I fail to comprehend your attitude." 
 
 The men were already too far gone to pay much 
 heed. 
 
 "This is a very painful sight, Mr. Spoker," said the 
 Captain. 
 
 ** And yet to the philosophic eye, or whatever it is," 
 replied the first lieutenant, "they may be said to have 
 been getting drunk since they came aboard." 
 
 "I do not know if you always follow my thought, 
 Mr. Spoker," returned the Captain gently. "But let 
 us proceed." 
 
 In the powder magazine they found an old salt smok- 
 ing his pipe. 
 
 "Good God," cried the Captain, "what are you 
 about.?" 
 
 "Well, sir," said the old salt, apologetically, "they 
 told me as she were going down." 
 
 453 
 
FABLES 
 
 "And suppose she were?" said the Captain. "To 
 the philosophic eye, there would be nothing new in our 
 position. Life, my old shipmate, life, at any moment 
 and in any view, is as dangerous as a sinking ship; and 
 yet it is man's handsome fashion to carry umbrellas, to 
 wear indiarubber overshoes, to begin vast works, and 
 to conduct himself in every way as if he might hope to 
 be eternal. And for my own poor part I should despise 
 the man who, even on board a sinking ship, should 
 omit to take a pill or to wind up his watch. That, my 
 friend, would not be the human attitude." 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Spoker. "But what 
 is precisely the difference between shaving in a sinking 
 ship and smoking in a powder magazine ?" 
 
 "Or doing anything at all in any conceivable cir- 
 cumstances?" cried the Captain. "Perfectly conclu- 
 sive; give me a cigar! " 
 
 Two minutes aftferwards the ship blew up with a 
 glorious detonation. 
 
 454 
 
m 
 
 THE TWO MATCHES 
 
 One day there was a traveller in the woods in Cali- 
 fornia, in the dry season, when the Trades were blow- 
 ing strong. He had ridden a long way, and he was 
 tired and hungry, and dismounted from his horse to 
 smoke a pipe. But when he felt in his pocket, he 
 found but two matches. He struck the first, and it 
 would not light. 
 
 ** Here is a pretty state of things," said the traveller. 
 "Dying for a smoke; only one match left; and that 
 certain to miss fire! Was there ever a creature so 
 unfortunate? And yet," thought the traveller, ''sup- 
 pose I light this match, and smoke my pipe, and 
 shake out the dottle here in the grass — the grass might 
 catch on fire, for it is dry like tinder; and while I snatch 
 out the flames in front, they might evade and run be- 
 hind me, and seize upon yon bush of poison oak; 
 before I could reach it, that would have blazed up ; 
 over the bush I see a pine tree hung with moss; that 
 too would fly in fire upon the instant to its topmost 
 bough; and the flame of that long torch — how would 
 the trade wind take and brandish that through the 
 inflammable forest! I hear this dell roar in a moment 
 with the joint voice of wind and fire, I see myself gallop 
 
 455 
 
FABLES 
 
 for my soul, and the flying conflagration chase and out- 
 flank me through the hills; I see this pleasant forest 
 burn for days, and the cattle roasted, and the springs 
 dried up, and the farmer ruined, and his children cast 
 upon the world. What a world hangs upon this 
 moment!" 
 
 With that he struck the match, and it missed fire. 
 
 ** Thank God," said the traveller, and put his pipe 
 in his pocket 
 
 ^ 
 
IV 
 
 THE SICK MAN AND THE FIREMAN 
 
 There was once a sick man in a burning house, to 
 whom there entered a fireman. **Do not save me," 
 said the sick man. ** Save those who are strong." 
 
 *' Will you kindly tell me why?" inquired the fire- 
 man, for he was a civil fellow. 
 
 ''Nothing could possibly be fairer," said the sick 
 man. "The strong should be preferred in all cases, 
 because they are of more service in the world." 
 
 The fireman pondered a while, for he was a man of 
 some philosophy. "Granted," said he at last, as a 
 part of the roof fell in ; "but for the sake of conversa- 
 tion, what would you lay down as the proper service 
 of the strong ? " 
 
 "Nothing can possibly be easier," returned the sick 
 man: "the proper service of the strong is to help the 
 weak." 
 
 Again the fireman reflected, for there was nothing 
 hasty about this excellent creature. "I could forgive 
 you being sick," he said at last, as a portion of the wall 
 fell out, "but I cannot bear your being such a fool." 
 And with that he heaved up his fireman's axe, for he 
 was eminently just, and clove the sick man to the bed. 
 
 457 
 
THE DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER 
 
 Once upon a time the devil stayed at an inn, where no 
 one knew him, for they were people whose education 
 had been neglected. He was bent on mischief, and for 
 a time kept everybody by the ears. But at last the 
 innkeeper set a watch upon the devil and took him in 
 the fact. 
 
 The innkeeper got a rope's end. 
 
 *' Now I am going to thrash you," said the innkeeper. 
 
 ** You have no right to be angry with me," said the 
 devil. '* I am only the devil, and it is my nature to do 
 wrong." 
 
 ** Is that so ?" asked the innkeeper. 
 
 '* Fact, I assure you," said the devil. 
 
 **You really cannot help doing ill?" asked the inn- 
 keeper. 
 
 **Not in the smallest," said the devil; "it would be 
 useless cruelty to thrash a thing like me." 
 
 'Mt would indeed," said the innkeeper. 
 
 And he made a noose and hanged the devil. 
 
 ** There," said the innkeeper. 
 
 458 
 
VI 
 
 THE PENITENT 
 
 A MAN met a lad weeping. ** What do you weep 
 for?" he asked. 
 
 *' I am weeping for my sins," said the lad. 
 
 '* You must have little to do," said the man. 
 
 The next day they met again. Once more the lad 
 was weeping. " Why do you weep now ? " asked the 
 man. 
 
 '*1 am weeping because I have nothing to eat," said 
 the lad. 
 
 *' I thought it would come to that," said the man. 
 
 459 
 
VII 
 
 THE YELLOW PAINT 
 
 In a certain city, there lived a physician who sold 
 yellow paint. This was of so singular a virtue that 
 whoso was bedaubed with it from head to heel was set 
 free from the dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, 
 and the fear of death forever. So the physician said in 
 his prospectus; and so said all the citizens in the city; 
 and there was nothing more urgent in men's hearts than 
 to be properly painted themselves, and nothing they 
 took more delight in than to see others painted. There 
 was in the same city a young man of a very good fam- 
 ily but of a somewhat reckless life; who had reached 
 the age of manhood and would have nothing to say to 
 the paint: ** To-morrow was soon enough," said he; 
 and when the morrow came he would still put it oflT. 
 So he might have continued to do until his death; only, 
 he had a friend of about his own age and much of his 
 own manners; and this youth, taking a walk in the 
 public street, with not one fleck of paint upon his body, 
 was suddenly run down by a water-cart and cut off" in 
 the heyday of his nakedness. This shook the other to 
 the soul; so that I never beheld a man more earnest to 
 be painted; and on the very same evening, in the pres- 
 ence of all his family, to appropriate music, and him- 
 self weeping aloud, he received three complete coats 
 
 460 
 
THE YELLOW PAINT 
 
 and a touch of varnish on the top. The physician (who 
 was himself affected even to tears) protested he had 
 never done a job so thorough. 
 
 " Some two months afterwards, the young man was 
 carried on a stretcher to the physician's house. 
 
 **What is the meaning of this ?" he cried, as soon 
 as the door was opened. "I was to be set free from 
 all the dangers of life; and here have I been run down 
 by that self-same water-cart, and my leg is broken." 
 
 ** Dear me! " said the physician. '* This is very sad. 
 But I perceive I must explain to you the action of my 
 paint. A broken bone is a mighty small affair at the 
 worst of it; and it belongs to a class of accidents to 
 which my paint is quite inapplicable. Sin, my dear 
 young friend, sin is the sole calamity that a wise man 
 should apprehend; it is against sin that I have fitted 
 you out; and when you come to be tempted, you will 
 give me news of my paint ! " 
 
 "O!" said the young man, *'I did not understand 
 that, and it seems rather disappointing. But I have no 
 doubt all is for the best; and in the meanwhile, I shall 
 be obliged to you if you will set my leg." 
 
 "That is none of my business," said the physician; 
 *' but if your bearers will carry you round the corner to 
 the surgeon's, I feel sure he will afford relief." 
 
 Some three years later, the young man came run- 
 ning to the physician's house in a great perturbation. 
 '*What is the meaning of this?" he cried. "Here was 
 I to be set free from the bondage of sin ; and I have just 
 committed forgery, arson, and murder." 
 
 " Dear me," said the physician. " This is very seri- 
 ous. Off with your clothes at once." And as soon as 
 
 461 
 
FABLES 
 
 the young man had stripped, he examined him from 
 head to foot. "No," he cried with great relief, '* there 
 is not a flake broken. Cheer up, my young friend, 
 your paint is as good as new." 
 
 "Good God!" cried the young man, "and what 
 then can be the use of it ? " 
 
 "Why," said the physician, "I perceive I must ex- 
 plain to you the nature of the action of my paint. It 
 does not exactly prevent sin ; it extenuates instead the 
 painful consequences. It is not so much for this world 
 as for the next; it is not against life; in short, it is 
 against death that I have fitted you out. And when 
 you come to die, you will give me news of my paint." 
 
 "O!" cried the young man, "I had not understood 
 that, and it seems a little disappointing. But, there, 
 no doubt all is for the best: and in the meanwhile, I 
 shall be obliged if you will help me to undo the evil 
 I have brought on innocent persons." 
 
 "That is none of my business," said the physician; 
 " but if you will go round the corner to the police office, 
 I feel sure it will afford you relief to give yourself up." 
 
 Six weeks later, the physician was called to the 
 town gaol. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" cried the young 
 man. "Here am I literally crusted with your paint; 
 and I have broken my leg, and committed all the crimes 
 in the calendar, and must be hanged to-morrow; and 
 am in the meanwhile in a fear so extreme that I lack 
 words to picture it." 
 
 "Dear me," said the physician. "This is really 
 amazing. Well, well; perhaps, if you had not been 
 painted, you would have been more frightened still." 
 
 46a 
 
Vlll 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ELD 
 
 So soon as the child began to speak, the gyve was 
 riveted ; and the boys and girls limped about their play 
 like convicts. Doubtless it was more pitiable to see 
 and more painful to bear in youth; but even the grown 
 folk, besides being very unhandy on their feet, were 
 often sick with ulcers. 
 
 About the time when Jack was ten years old, many 
 strangers began to journey through that country. These 
 he beheld going lightly by on the long roads, and the 
 thing amazed him. "I wonder how it comes," he 
 asked, ** that all these strangers are so quick afoot, and 
 we must drag about our fetter." 
 
 **My dear boy," said his uncle, the catechist, "do 
 not complain about your fetter, for it is the only thing 
 that makes life worth living. None are happy, none 
 are good, none are respectable, that are not gyved like 
 us. And I must tell you, besides, it is very dangerous 
 talk. If you grumble of your iron, you will have no 
 luck; if ever you take it off, you will be instantly 
 smitten by a thunderbolt." 
 
 "Are there no thunderbolts for these strangers.^" 
 asked Jack. 
 
 "Jupiter is longsuffering to the benighted," returned 
 the catechist. 
 
 463 
 
FABLES 
 
 *'Upon my word, I could wish I had been less for- 
 tunate, " said Jack. ** For if I had been born benighted, 
 I might now be going free; and it cannot be denied 
 the iron is inconvenient, and the ulcer hurts." 
 
 "Ah!" cried his uncle, " do not envy the heathen! 
 Theirs is a sad lot! Ah, poor souls, if they but knew 
 the joys of being fettered ! Poor souls, my heart yearns 
 for them. But the truth is they are vile, odious, inso- 
 lent, ill-conditioned, stinking brutes, not truly human 
 — for what is a man without a fetter? — and you 
 cannot be too particular not to touch or speak with 
 them." 
 
 After this talk, the child would never pass one of the 
 unfettered on the road but what he spat at him and 
 called him names, which was the practice of the chil- 
 dren in that part. 
 
 It chanced one day, when he was fifteen, he went 
 into the woods, and the ulcer pained him. It was a 
 fair day, with a blue sky; all the birds were singing; 
 but Jack nursed his foot. Presently, another song be- 
 gan ; it sounded like the singing of a person, only far 
 more gay ; at the same time, there was a beating on the 
 earth. Jack put aside the leaves; and there was a lad 
 of his own village, leaping, and dancing and singing to 
 himself in a green dell; and on the grass beside him 
 lay the dancer's iron. 
 
 **0!" cried Jack, " you have your fetter off ! " 
 
 *' For God's sake, don't tell your uncle ! " cried the lad. 
 
 ** If you fear my uncle," returned Jack, ** why do you 
 not fear the thunderbolt ? " 
 
 "That is only an old wives' tale," said the other. 
 *'It is only told to children. Scores of us come here 
 
 464 
 
THE HOUSE OF ELD 
 
 among the woods and dance for nights together, and 
 are none the worse." 
 
 This put Jack in a thousand new thoughts. He was 
 a grave lad; he had no mind to dance himself; he 
 wore his fetter manfully and tended his ulcer without 
 complaint. But he loved the less to be deceived or to 
 see others cheated. He began to lie in wait for heathen 
 travellers, at covert parts of the road, and in the dusk 
 of the day, so that he might speak with them unseen ; 
 and these were greatly taken with their wayside ques- 
 tioner, and told him things of weight. The wearing 
 of gyves (they said) was no command of Jupiter's. It 
 was the contrivance of a white-faced thing, a sorcerer, 
 that dwelt in that country in the Wood of Eld. He was 
 one like Glaucus that could change his shape, yet he 
 could be always told; for when he was crossed, he 
 gobbled like a turkey. He had three lives; but the 
 third smiting would make an end of him indeed; and 
 with that his house of sorcery would vanish, the gyves 
 fall, and the villagers take hands and dance like children. 
 
 *'And in your country?'* Jack would ask. 
 
 But at this the travellers, with one accord, would put 
 him off; until Jack began to suppose there was no land 
 entirely happy. Or, if there were, it must be one that 
 kept its folk at home ; which was natural enough. 
 
 But the case of the gyves weighed upon him. The 
 sight of the children limping stuck in his eyes; the 
 groans of such as dressed their ulcers haunted him. 
 And it came at last in his mind that he was born to 
 free them. 
 
 There was in that village a sword of heavenly forgery, 
 beaten upon Vulcan's anvil. It was never used but in 
 
 465 
 
FABLES 
 
 the temple, and then the flat of it only; and it hung on 
 a nail by the catechist's chimney. Early one night. 
 Jack rose, and took the sword, and was gone out of 
 the house and the village in the darkness. 
 
 All night he walked at a venture; and when day 
 came, he met strangers going to the fields. Then he 
 asked after the Wood of Eld and the house of sorcery; 
 and one said north, and one south; until Jack saw 
 that they deceived him. So then, when he asked his 
 way of any man, he showed the bright sword naked ; 
 and at that the gyve on the man's ankle rang, and an- 
 swered in his stead ; and the word was still Straight on. 
 But the man, when his gyve spoke, spat and struck at 
 Jack, and threw stones at him as he went away; so 
 that his head was broken. 
 
 So he came to that wood, and entered in, and he 
 was aware of a house in a low place, where funguses 
 grew, and the trees met, and the steaming of the marsh 
 arose about it like a smoke. It was a fine house, and 
 a very rambling; some parts of it were ancient like the 
 hills, and some but of yesterday, and none finished ; 
 and all the ends of it were open, so that you could go 
 in from every side. Yet it was in good repair, and all 
 the chimneys smoked. 
 
 Jack went in through the gable; and there was one 
 room after another, all bare, but all furnished in part so 
 that a man could dwell there; and in each there was a 
 fire burning where a man could warm himself, and 
 a table spread where he might eat. But Jack saw no- 
 where any living creature; only the bodies of some 
 stuffed. 
 
 "This is a hospitable house," said Jack; "but the 
 466 
 
THE HOUSE OF ELD 
 
 ground must be quaggy underneath, for at every step 
 the building quakes." 
 
 He had gone some time in the house, when he began 
 to be hungry. Then he looked at the food, and at 
 first he was afraid ; but he bared the sword, and by the 
 shining of the sword, it seemed the food was honest. 
 So he took the courage to sit down and eat, and he 
 was refreshed in mind and body. 
 
 **This is strange," thought he, "that in the house 
 of sorcery, there should be food so wholesome." 
 
 As he was yet eating, there came into that room the 
 appearance of his uncle, and Jack was afraid because he 
 had taken the sword. But his uncle was never more 
 kind, and sat down to meat with him, and praised 
 him because he had taken the sword. Never had these 
 two been more pleasantly together, and Jack was full 
 of love to the man. 
 
 **It was very well done," said his uncle, ** to take 
 the sword and come yourself into the House of Eld ; a 
 good thought and a brave deed. But now you are 
 satisfied; and we may go home to dinner arm in arm." 
 
 *'0, dear, no!" said Jack. **I am not satisfied 
 yet." 
 
 **How!" cried his uncle. "Are you not warmed 
 by the fire ? Does not this food sustain you ? " 
 
 ** I see the food to be wholesome," said Jack, ** and 
 still it is no proof that a man should wear a gyve on his 
 right leg." 
 
 Now at this the appearance of his uncle gobbled like 
 a turkey. 
 
 "Jupiter! " cried Jack, " is this the sorcerer ? " 
 
 His hand held back and his heart failed him for the 
 467 
 
FABLES 
 
 love he bore his uncle; but he heaved up the sword and 
 smote the appearance on the head; and it cried out 
 aloud with the voice of his uncle; and fell to the 
 ground; and a little bloodless white thing fled from the 
 room. 
 
 The cry rang in Jack's ears, and his knees smote to- 
 gether, and conscience cried upon him; and yet he was 
 strengthened, and there woke in his bones the lust of 
 that enchanter's blood. ** If the gyves are to fall," said 
 he, •*! must go through with this, and when I get 
 home, I shall fmd my uncle dancing." 
 
 So he went on after the bloodless thing. In the way, 
 he met the appearance of his father; and his father was 
 incensed, and railed upon him, and called to him upon 
 his duty, and bade him be home, while there was yet 
 time. *' For you can still," said he, ** be home by sun- 
 set; and then all will be forgiven." 
 
 "God knows," said Jack, *M fear your anger; but 
 yet your anger does not prove that a man should wear 
 a gyve on his right leg." 
 
 And at that the appearance of his father gobbled like 
 a turkey. 
 
 " Ah, heaven," cried Jack, ** the sorcerer again! " 
 
 The blood ran backward in his body and his joints 
 rebelled against him for the love he bore his father; but 
 he heaved up the sword, and plunged it in the heart 
 of the appearance; and the appearance cried out aloud 
 with the voice of his father; and feH to the ground; 
 and a little bloodless white thing fled from the room. 
 
 The cry rang in Jack's ears, and his soul was dark- 
 ened; but now rage came to him. ** I have done what 
 I dare not think upon," said he. **I will go to an end 
 
 468 
 
THE HOUSE OF ELD 
 
 with it, or perish. And when I get home, I pray God 
 this may be a dfeam and I may find my father dancing." 
 
 So he went on after the bloodless thing that had es- 
 caped ; and in the way he met the appearance of his 
 mother, and she wept. "What have you done?" 
 she cried. *'What is this that you have done? O, 
 come home (where you may be by bedtime) ere you 
 do more ill to me and mine ; for it is enough to smite 
 my brother and your father." 
 
 " Dear mother, it is not these that I have smitten," 
 said Jack; "it was but the enchanter in their shape. 
 And even if I had, it would not prove that a man 
 should wear a gyve on his right leg." 
 
 And at this the appearance gobbled like a turkey. 
 
 He never knew how he did that; but he swung the 
 sword on the one side, and clove the appearance 
 through the midst; and it cried out aloud with the 
 voice of his mother; and fell to the ground; and with 
 the fall of it, the house was gone from over Jack's head, 
 iind he stood alone in the woods, and the gyve was 
 loosened from his leg. 
 
 "Well," said he, "the enchanter is now dead and 
 the fetter gone." But the cries rang in his soul, and 
 the day was like night to him. "This has been a sore 
 business," said he. " Let me get forth out of the wood, 
 and see the good that I have done to others." 
 
 He thought to leave the fetter where it lay, but when 
 he turned to go, his mind was otherwise. So he 
 stooped and put the gyve in his bosom ; and the rough 
 iron galled him as he went, and his bosom bled. 
 
 Now when he was forth of the wood upon the high- 
 way, he met folk returning from the field; and those 
 
 469 
 
FABLES 
 
 he met had no fetter on the right leg, but behold ! they 
 had one upon the left. Jack asked them what it sig- 
 nified; and they said, "that was the new wear, for 
 the old was found to be a superstition." Then he 
 looked at them nearly; and there was a new ulcer on 
 the left ankle, and the old one on the right was not yet 
 healed. 
 
 "Now may God forgive me!" cried Jack, **I would 
 I were well home." 
 
 And when he was home, there lay his uncle smitten 
 on the head, and his father pierced through the heart, 
 and his mother cloven through the midst. And he sat 
 in the lone house and wept beside the bodies. 
 
 MORAL 
 
 Old is the tree and the fruit good, 
 Very old and thick the wood. 
 Woodman, is your courage stout ? 
 Beware! the root is wrapped about 
 Your mother's heart, your father's bones ; 
 And like the mandrake comes with groans. 
 
 4T» 
 
IX 
 
 THE FOUR REFORMERS 
 
 Four reformers met under a bramble bush. They 
 were all agreed the world must be changed. **We 
 must abolish property," said one. 
 
 ** We must abolish marriage," said the second. 
 
 "We must abolish God," said the third. 
 
 *M wish we could abolish work," said the fourth. 
 
 **Do not let us get beyond practical politics," said 
 the first. **The first thing is to reduce men to a 
 common level." 
 
 **The first thing," said the second, **is to give free- 
 dom to the sexes." 
 
 "The first thing," said the third, **is to find out 
 how to do it." 
 
 "The first step," said the first, "is to abolish the 
 Bible." 
 
 "The first thing," said the second, " is to abolish the 
 laws." 
 
 " The first thing," said the third, " is to abolish man- 
 kind." 
 
 47i 
 
THE MAN AND HIS FRIEND 
 
 A MAN quarrelled with his friend. 
 
 *M have been much deceived in you," said the man. 
 
 And the friend made a face at him and went away. 
 
 A little after, they both died, and came together be- 
 fore the great white Justice of the Peace. It began to 
 look black for the friend, but the man for a while had a 
 clear character and was getting in good spirits. 
 
 "I find here some record of a quarrel," said the jus- 
 tice, looking in his notes. '' Which of you was in the 
 wrong ? " 
 
 ** He was," said the man. ** He spoke ill of me be- 
 hind my back." 
 
 ** Did he so ? " said the justice. "And pray how did 
 he speak about your neighbours ? " 
 
 ** O, he had always a nasty tongue," said the man. 
 
 *' And you chose him for your friend ? " cried the jus- 
 tice. " My good fellow, we have no use here for fools. " 
 
 So the man was cast in the pit, and the friend laughed 
 out aloud in the dark and remained to be tried on other 
 charges. 
 
 47a 
 
XI 
 
 THE READER 
 
 "I NEVER read such an impious book," said the reader, 
 throwing it on the floor. 
 
 ** You need not hurt me," said the book; **you will 
 only get less for me second hand, and I did not write 
 myself." 
 
 *'That is true," said the reader. **My quarrel is 
 with your author." 
 
 **Ah, well," said the book, **you need not buy his 
 rant." 
 
 ** That is true," said the reader. *' But I thought him 
 such a cheerful writer." 
 
 *'I find him so," said the book. 
 
 ** You must be differently made from me," said the 
 reader. 
 
 "Let me tell you a fable," said the book. ** There 
 were two men wrecked upon a desert island; one of 
 them made believe he was at home, the other ad- 
 mitted " 
 
 "Oh, 1 know your kind of fable," said the reader. 
 "They both died." 
 
 "And so they did," said the book. "No doubt of 
 that. And everybody else." 
 
 "That is true," said the reader. "Push it a little 
 further for this once. And when they were all dead ? " 
 
 473 
 
FABLES 
 
 ''They were in God's hands the same as before," 
 said the book. 
 
 *'Not much to boast of, by your account," cried the 
 reader. 
 
 ** Who is impious now ? " said the book. 
 
 And the reader put him on the fire. 
 
 The coward crouches from the rod. 
 And loathes the iron face of God. 
 
 474 
 
XII 
 
 THE CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER 
 
 "Look round you," said the citizen. "This is the 
 largest market in the world." 
 
 " Oh, surely not," said the traveller. 
 
 "Well, perhaps not the largest," said the citizen, 
 "but much the best." 
 
 "You are certainly wrong there," said the traveller. 
 "I can tell you ..." 
 
 They buried the stranger at the dusk. 
 
 45r5 
 
XIII 
 
 THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER 
 
 Once upon a time there came to this earth a visitor 
 from a neighbouring planet. And he was met at the 
 place of his descent by a great philosopher, who was 
 to show him everything. 
 
 First of all they came through a wood, and the 
 stranger looked upon the trees. ** Whom have we 
 here?" said he. 
 
 ''These are only vegetables," said the philosopher. 
 *'They are alive, but not at all interesting." 
 
 ' * I don't know about that, " said the stranger. * ' They 
 seem to have very good manners. Do they never 
 speak?" 
 
 **They lack the gift," said the philosopher. 
 
 ** Yet I think I hear them sing," said the other. 
 
 **That is only the wind among the leaves," said the 
 philosopher. "I will explain to you the theory of 
 winds: it is very interesting." 
 
 "Well," said the stranger, *'I wish I knew what 
 they are thinking." 
 
 ''They cannot think," said the philosopher. 
 
 "I don't know about that," returned the stranger: 
 and then laying his hand upon a trunk: **I like these 
 people," said he. 
 
 476 
 
THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER 
 
 *'They are not people at all," said the philosopher. 
 **Come along." 
 
 Next they came through a meadow where there 
 were cows. 
 
 ''These are very dirty people," said the stranger. 
 
 ''They are not people at all," said the philosopher; 
 and he explained what a cow is in scientific words 
 which I have forgotten. 
 
 "That is all one to me," said the stranger. "But 
 why do they never look up ? " 
 
 "Because they are graminivorous," said the philos- 
 opher; "and to live upon grass, which is not highly 
 nutritious, requires so close an attention to business 
 that they have no time to think, or speak, or look at 
 the scenery, or keep themselves clean." 
 
 "Well," said the stranger, " that is one way to live, 
 no doubt. But I prefer the people with the green 
 heads." 
 
 Next they came into a city, and the streets were full 
 of men and women. 
 
 "These are very odd people," said the stranger. 
 
 "They are the people of the greatest nation in the 
 world," said the philosopher. 
 
 "Are they indeed?" said the stranger. "They 
 scarcely look so." 
 
 477 
 
XIV 
 
 THE CARTHORSES AND THE SADDLEHORSB 
 
 Two carthorses, a gelding and a mare, were brought 
 to Samoa, and put in the same field with a saddlehorse 
 to run free on the island. They were rather afraid to go 
 near him, for they saw he was a saddlehorse, and sup- 
 posed he would not speak to them. Now the saddle- 
 horse had never seen creatures so big. ** These must be 
 great chiefs," thought he, and he approached them civ- 
 illy. ** Lady and gentleman," said he, *M understand 
 you are from the colonies. I offer you my affectionate 
 compliments, and make you heartily welcome to the 
 island." 
 
 The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted 
 with each other. 
 
 *'Who can he be ?*' said the gelding. 
 
 **He seems suspiciously civil," said the mare. 
 
 "I do not think he can be much account," said the 
 gelding. 
 
 ** Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka," said the 
 mare. 
 
 Then they turned to him. 
 
 '* Go to the devil! " said the gelding. 
 
 " I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons 
 of our quality ! " cried the mare. 
 
 The saddlehorse went away by himself. **I was 
 right," said he, **they are great chiefs." 
 
 478 
 
XV 
 
 THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG 
 
 •* Be ashamed of yourself," said the frog. "When I 
 was a tadpole, I had no tail." 
 
 **Just what I thought!" said the tadpole. "You 
 never were a tadpole." 
 
 479 
 
XVI 
 
 SOMETHING IN IT 
 
 The natives told him many tales. In particular, they 
 warned him of the house of yellow reeds tied with 
 black sinnet, how anyone who touched it became in- 
 stantly the prey of Akaanga, and was handed on to 
 him by Miru the ruddy, and hocussed with the kava 
 of the dead, and baked in the ovens and eaten by the 
 eaters of the dead. 
 
 ** There is nothing in it," said the missionary. 
 
 There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to 
 look upon ; but, by the native saying, it was death to 
 bathe there. "There is nothing in that," said the mis- 
 sionary; and he came to the bay and went swimming. 
 Presently an eddy took him and bore him towards 
 the reef. "Oho!" thought the missionary, "it seems 
 there is something in it after all." And he swam the 
 harder, but the eddy carried him away. "I do not 
 care about this eddy," said the missionary; and even 
 as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles 
 above the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one reed 
 joined with another, and the whole bound with black 
 sinnet; a ladder led to the door, and all about the 
 house hung calabashes. He had never seen such a 
 house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for 
 
 480 
 
SOMETHING IN IT 
 
 the ladder. **This is singular," said the missionary, 
 *'but there can be nothing in it." And he laid hold of 
 the ladder and went up. It was a fine house; but 
 there was no man there; and when the missionary 
 looked back he saw no island, only the heaving of the 
 sea. *• It is strange about the island," said the mission- 
 ary, "but who's afraid ? my stories are the true ones." 
 And he laid hold of a calabash, for he was one that 
 loved curiosities. Now he had no sooner laid hand 
 upon the calabash than that which he handled, and 
 that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble 
 and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the 
 waters, and the meshes of the net; and he wallowed 
 there like a fish. 
 
 *' A body would think there was something in this," 
 said the missionary. *'But if these tales are true, I 
 wonder what about my tales! " 
 
 Now the flaming of Akaanga's torch drew near in 
 the night; and the misshapen hands groped in the 
 meshes of the net; and they took the missionary be- 
 tween the finger and the thumb, and bore him drip- 
 ping in the night and silence to the place of the ovens 
 of Miru. And there was Miru, ruddy in the glow of 
 the ovens ; and there sat her four daughters and made 
 the kava of the dead; and there sat the comers out of 
 the islands of the living dripping and lamenting. 
 
 This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons 
 of men. But of all who ever came there, the missionary 
 was the most concerned; and to make things worse 
 the person next him was a convert of his own. 
 
 ** Aha," said the convert, *'so you are here like your 
 neighbours ? And how about all your stories ? " 
 
 481 
 
FABLES 
 
 "It seems," said the missionary with bursting tears, 
 "that there was nothing in them." 
 
 By this the kava of the dead was ready and the 
 daughters of Miru began to intone in the old manner 
 of singing. " Gone are the green islands and the bright 
 sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million stars, 
 and life and love and hope. Henceforth is no more, 
 only to sit in the night and silence, and see your friends 
 devoured; for life is a deceit and the bandage is taken 
 from your eyes." 
 
 Now when the singing was done, one of the daugh- 
 ters came with the bowl. Desire of that kava rose in 
 the missionary's bosom ; he lusted for it like a swim- 
 mer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he 
 reached out his hand, and took the bowl, and would 
 have drunk. And then he remembered, and put it back. 
 
 " Drink! " sang the daughter of Miru. "There is no 
 kava like the kava of the dead, and to drink of it once 
 is the reward of living." 
 
 "I thank you. It smells excellent," said the mis- 
 sionary. " But I am a blue-ribbon man myself; and 
 though I am aware there is a difference of opinion even 
 in our own confession, I have always held kava to be 
 excluded." 
 
 "What!" cried the convert. "Are you going to 
 respect a taboo at a time like this? And you were 
 always so opposed to taboos when you were alive!" 
 
 "To other people's," said the missionary. "Nevet 
 to my own." 
 
 " But yours have all proved wrong," said the convert. 
 
 "It looks like it," said the missionary, "and I can't 
 help that. No reason why I should break my word." 
 
 482 
 
SOMETHING IN IT 
 
 "I never heard the like of this! " cried the daughter 
 of Miru. *' Pray, what do you expect to gain ? " 
 
 ''This is not the point," said the missionary. **I 
 took this pledge for others, I am not going to break it 
 for myself." 
 
 The daughter of Miru was puzzled; she came and 
 told her mother, and Miru was vexed; and they went 
 and told Akaanga. 
 
 " I don't know what to do about this," said Akaanga; 
 and he came and reasoned with the missionary. 
 
 " But there is such a thing as right and wrong," said 
 the missionary; "and your ovens cannot alter that." 
 
 "Give the kava to the rest," said Akaanga to the 
 daughters of Miru. "I must get rid of this sea-lawyer 
 instantly, or worse will come of it." 
 
 The next moment the missionary came up in the 
 midst of the sea, and there before him were the palm 
 trees of the island. He swam to the shore gladly, and 
 landed. Much matter of thought was in that mission- 
 ary's mind. 
 
 "I seem to have been misinformed upon some points," 
 said he. " Perhaps there is not much in it as I supposed ; 
 but there is something in it after all. Let me be glad 
 of that." 
 
 And he rang the bell for service. 
 
 MORAL 
 
 The sticks break, the stones crumble, 
 The eternal altars tilt and tumble. 
 Sanctions and tales dislimn like mist 
 About the amazed evangelist. 
 He stands unshook from age to youth 
 Upon one pin-point of the truth. 
 483 
 
XVII 
 
 FAITH, HALF-FAITH, AND NO FAITH AT ALL 
 
 In the ancient days there went three men upon pil- 
 grimage; one was a priest, and one was a virtuous per- 
 son, and the third was an old rover with his axe. 
 
 As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds of 
 faith. 
 
 *' We find the proofs of our religion in the works of 
 nature," said he, and beat his breast. 
 
 ''That is true," said the virtuous person. 
 
 **The peacock has a scrannel voice," said the priest, 
 **as has been laid down always in our books. How 
 cheering!" he cried, in a voice like one that wept. 
 ''How comforting!" 
 
 " I require no such proofs," said the virtuous person. 
 
 " Then you have no reasonable faith," said the priest. 
 
 "Great is the right, and shall prevail!" cried the 
 virtuous person. "There is loyalty in my soul; be 
 sure, there is loyalty in the mind of Odin." 
 
 "These are but playings upon words," returned the 
 priest. "A sackful of such trash is nothing to the 
 peacock." 
 
 Just then they passed a country farm where there 
 was a peacock seated on a rail, and the bird opened its 
 mouth and sang with the voice of a nightingale. 
 
 "Where are you now ?" asked the virtuous person. 
 484 
 
FAITH, HALF-FAITH, AND NO FAITH AT ALL 
 
 "And yet this shakes not me! Great is the truth and 
 shall prevail! " 
 
 ''The devil fly away with that peacock!" said the 
 priest; and he was downcast for a mile or two. 
 
 But presently they came to a shrine, where a Fakeer 
 performed miracles. 
 
 *' Ah! " said the priest, *'here are the true grounds 
 of faith. The peacock was but an adminicle. This is 
 the base of our religion." And he beat upon his breast 
 and groaned like one with colic. 
 
 **Now to me," said the virtuous person, ** all this is 
 as little to the purpose as the peacock. I believe be- 
 cause I see the right is great and must prevail; and this 
 Fakeer might carry on with his conjuring tricks till 
 doomsday, and it would not play bluff upon a man 
 like me." 
 
 Now at this the Fakeer was so much incensed that 
 his hand trembled; and lo! in the midst of a miracle 
 the cards fell from up his sleeve. 
 
 "Where are you now?" asked the virtuous person. 
 "And yet it shakes not me!" 
 
 "The devil fly away with the Fakeer!" cried the 
 priest. "I really do not see the good of going on with 
 this pilgrimage." 
 
 "Cheer up!" cried the virtuous person. "Great is 
 the right and shall prevail!" 
 
 "If you are quite sure it will prevail?" says the 
 priest. 
 
 "I pledge my word for that," said the virtuous 
 person. 
 
 So the other began to go on again with a better 
 heart. 
 
 485 
 
FABLES 
 
 At last one came running, and told them all was lost: 
 that the powers of darkness had besieged the Heavenly 
 Mansions, that Odin was to die, and evil triumph. 
 
 *'I have been grossly deceived," cried the virtuous 
 person. 
 
 **A11 is lost now," said the priest. 
 
 *'I wonder if it is too late to make it up with the 
 devil ? " said the virtuous person. 
 
 *'0, I hope not," said the priest. ** And at any rate 
 we can but try. But what are you doing with your 
 axe ? " says he to the rover. 
 
 " I am off to die with Odin," said the rover. 
 
 486 
 
XVIII 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE 
 
 The King was a man that stood well before the world, 
 his smile was sweet as clover, but his soul withinsides 
 was as little as a pea. He had two sons; and the 
 younger son was a boy after his heart, but the elder 
 was one whom he feared. It befel one morning that 
 the drum sounded in the dun before it was yet day; 
 and the King rode with his two sons, and a brave array 
 behind them. They rode two hours, and came to the 
 foot of a brown mountain that was very steep. 
 
 ** Where do we ride ?" said the elder son. 
 
 '* Across this brown mountain," said the King, and 
 smiled to himself. 
 
 '*My father knows what he is doing," said the 
 younger son. 
 
 And they rode two hours more, and came to the 
 sides of a black river that was wondrous deep. 
 
 '* And where do we ride?" asked the elder son. 
 
 **Over this black river," said the King, and smiled 
 to himself. 
 
 **My father knows what he is doing," said the 
 younger son. 
 
 And they rode all that day, and about the time of the 
 sunsetting came to the side of a lake, where was a 
 great dun. 
 
 487 
 
FABLES 
 
 "It is here we ride," said the King; ''to a King's 
 house, and a priest's, and a house where you will learn 
 much.'* 
 
 At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest 
 met them, and he was a grave man, and beside him 
 stood his daughter, and she was as fair as the morn, 
 and one that smiled and looked down. 
 
 ''These are my two sons," said the first King. 
 
 "And here is my daughter," said the King who was 
 a priest. 
 
 "She is a wonderful fine maid," said the first King, 
 "and I like her manner of smiling." 
 
 "They are wonderful well-grown lads," said the 
 second, "and I like their gravity." 
 
 And then the two Kings looked at each other, and 
 said, " The thing may come about." 
 
 And in the meanwhile the two lads looked upon the 
 maid, and the one grew pale and the other red; and 
 the maid looked upon the ground smiling. 
 
 " Here is the maid that I shall marry," said the elder. 
 " For I think she smiled upon me." 
 
 But the younger plucked his father by the sleeve. 
 "Father," said he, "a word in your ear. If I find fa- 
 vour in your sight, might not I wed this maid, for I 
 think she smiles upon me?" 
 
 ' ' A word in yours, " said the King his father. * ' Wait- 
 ing is good hunting, and when the teeth are shut the 
 tongue is at home." 
 
 Now they were come into the dun, and feasted; and 
 this was a great house, so that the lads were aston- 
 ished; and the King that was a priest sat at the end of 
 the board and was silent, so that the lads were filled 
 
 488 
 
THE TOUCHSTONE 
 
 with reverence ; and the maid served them smiling with 
 downcast eyes, so that their hearts were enlarged. 
 
 Before it was day, the elder son arose, and he found 
 the maid at her weaving, for she was a diligent girl. 
 ''Maid," quoth he, "I would fain marry you." 
 
 "You must speak with my father," said she, and 
 she looked upon the ground smiling, and became like 
 the rose. 
 
 "Her heart is with me," said the elder son, and he 
 went down to the lake and sang. 
 
 A little after came the younger son. ** Maid," quoth 
 he, "if our fathers were agreed, I would like well to 
 marry you." 
 
 "You can speak to my father," said she, and looked 
 upon the ground and smiled and grew like the rose." 
 
 "She is a dutiful daughter," said the younger son, 
 "she will make an obedient wife." And then he 
 thought, "What shall I do?" and he remembered the 
 King her father was a priest; so he went into the 
 temple and sacrificed a weasel and a hare. 
 
 Presently the news got about; and the two lads and 
 the first King were called into the presence of the 
 King who was a priest, where he sat upon the high 
 seat. 
 
 "Little I reck of gear," said the King who was a 
 priest, "and little of power. For we live here among 
 the shadows of things, and the heart is sick of seeing 
 them. And we stay here in the wind like raiment 
 drying, and the heart is weary of the wind. But one 
 thing I love, and that is truth ; and for one thing will 
 I give my daughter, and that is the trial stone. For in 
 the light of that stone the seeming goes, and the being 
 
 489 
 
FABLES 
 
 shows, and all things besides are worthless. Therefore, 
 lads, if ye would wed my daughter, out foot, and bring 
 me the stone of touch, for that is the price of her." 
 
 "A word in your ear," said the younger son to his 
 father. "I think we do very well without this stone." 
 
 "A word in yours," said his father. ** I am of your 
 way of thinking; but when the teeth are shut the 
 tongue is at home." And he smiled to the King that 
 was a priest. 
 
 But the elder son got to his feet, and called the King 
 that was a priest by the name of father. ** For whether 
 I marry the maid or no, I will call you by that word 
 for the love of your wisdom; and even now I will ride 
 forth and search the world for the stone of touch." So 
 he said farewell and rode into the world. 
 
 **I think 1 will go, too," said the younger son, "if 
 I can have your leave. For my heart goes out to the 
 maid." 
 
 '* You will ride home with me," said his father. 
 
 So they rode home, and when they came to the dun, 
 the King had his son into his treasury. **Here," said 
 he, **is the touchstone which shows truth; for there is 
 no truth but plain truth ; and if you will look in this, 
 you will see yourself as you are." 
 
 And the younger son looked in it, and saw his face 
 as it were the face of a beardless youth, and he was 
 well enough pleased; for the thing was a piece of a 
 mirror. 
 
 " Here is no such great thing to make a work about," 
 said he; **but if it will get me the maid, 1 shall never 
 complain. But what a fool is my brother to ride into 
 the world, and the thing all the while at home." 
 
 490 
 
THE TOUCHSTONE 
 
 So they rode back to the other dun, and showed the 
 mirror to the King that was a priest; and when he had 
 looked in it, and seen himself like a King, and his house 
 like a King's house, and all things like themselves, he 
 cried out and blessed God. **For now I know," said 
 he, '* there is no truth but the plain truth; and I am a 
 King indeed, although my heart misgave me." And 
 he pulled down his temple, and built a new one; and 
 then the younger son was married to the maid. 
 
 In the meantime the elder son rode into the world to 
 find the touchstone of the trial of truth ; and whenever 
 he came to a place of habitation, he would ask the men 
 if they had heard of it. And in every place the men 
 answered: *'Not only have we heard of it, but we, 
 alone of all men, possess the thing itself, and it hangs 
 in the side of our chimney to this day." Then would 
 the elder son be glad, and beg for a sight of it. And 
 sometimes it would be a piece of mirror, that showed 
 the seeming of things, and then he would say, '*This 
 can never be, for there should be more than seeming." 
 And sometimes it would be a lump of coal, which 
 showed nothing; and then he would say, "This can 
 never be, for at least there is the seeming." And 
 sometimes it would be a touchstone indeed, beautiful 
 in hue, adorned with polishing, the light inhabiting its 
 sides; and when he found this, he would beg the 
 thing, and the persons of that place would give it him, 
 for all men were very generous of that gift; so that at 
 the last he had his wallet full of them, and they chinked 
 together when he rode; and when he halted by the 
 side of the way he would take them out and try them, 
 till his head turned like the sails upon a windmill. 
 
 491 
 
FABLES 
 
 ** A murrain upon this business! " said the elder son, 
 "for I perceive no end to it. Here I have the red, and 
 here the blue and the green ; and to me they seem all 
 excellent, and yet shame each other. A murrain on the 
 trade ! If it were not for the King that is a priest and 
 whom I have called my father, and if it were not for 
 the fair maid of the dun that makes my mouth to sing 
 and my heart enlarge, I would even tumble them all 
 into the salt sea, and go home and be a King like other 
 folk." 
 
 But he was like the hunter that has seen a stag upon 
 a mountain, so that the night may fall, and the fire be 
 kindled and the lights shine in his house, but desire of 
 that stag is single in his bosom. 
 
 Now after many years the elder son came upon the 
 sides of the salt sea; and it was night, and a savage 
 place, and the clamour of the sea was loud. There he 
 was aware of a house, and a man that sat there by the 
 light of a candle, for he had no fire. Now the elder 
 son came in to him, and the man gave him water to 
 drink, for he had no bread; and wagged his head 
 when he was spoken to, for he had no words. 
 
 ** Have you the touchstone of truth?" asked the 
 elder son; and when the man had wagged his head, 
 **I might have known that," cried the elder son, **I 
 have here a wallet full of them ! " And with that he 
 laughed, although his heart was weary. 
 
 And with that the man laughed too, and with the 
 fuflf of his laughter the candle went out. 
 
 "Sleep," said the man, "for now I think you have 
 come far enough; and your quest is ended, and my 
 candle is out." 
 
 49a 
 
THE TOUCHSTONE 
 
 Now when the morning came, the man gave him a 
 clear pebble in his hand, and it had no beauty and no 
 colour, and the elder son looked upon it scornfully and 
 shook his head, and he went away, for it seemed a 
 small affair to him. 
 
 All that day he rode, and his mind was quiet, and 
 the desire of the chase allayed. "How if this poor 
 pebble be the touchstone, after all?" said he; and he 
 got down from his horse, and emptied forth his wallet 
 by the side of the way. Now, in the light of each 
 other, all the touchstones lost their hue and fire and 
 withered like stars at morning; but in the light of the 
 pebble their beauty remained, only the pebble was the 
 most bright. And the elder son smote upon his brow. 
 "How if this be the truth ?" he cried, "that all are a 
 little true?" And he took the pebble, and turned its 
 light upon the heavens, and they deepened above him 
 like the pit; and he turned it on the hills, and the hills 
 were cold and rugged, but life ran in their sides so that 
 his own life bounded; and he turned it on the dust, 
 and he beheld the dust with joy and terror; and he 
 turned it on himself, and kneeled down and prayed. 
 
 "Now thanks be to God," said the elder son, "I 
 have found the touchstone ; and now I may turn my 
 reins, and ride home to the King and to the maid of 
 the dun that makes my mouth to sing and my heart 
 enlarge." 
 
 Now when he came to the dun, he saw children 
 playing by the gate where the King had met him in the 
 old days; and this stayed his pleasure, for he thought in 
 his heart, "It is here my children should be playing." 
 And when he came into the hall, there was his brother 
 
 493 
 
FABLES 
 
 on the high seat and the maid beside him ; and at that 
 his anger rose, for he thought in his heart, " It is I that 
 should be sitting there, and the maid beside me." 
 
 "Who are you?" said his brother. "And what 
 make you in the dun ? " 
 
 "I am your elder brother," he replied. "And I am 
 come to marry the maid, for I have brought the touch- 
 stone of truth." 
 
 Then the younger brother laughed aloud. " Why," 
 said he, "I found the touchstone years ago, and mar- 
 ried the maid, and there are our children playing at the 
 gate." 
 
 Now at this the elder brother grew as gray as the 
 dawn. "I pray you have dealt justly," said he, "for 
 I perceive my life is lost." 
 
 "Justly ? " quoth the younger brother. " It becomes 
 you ill, that are a restless man and a runagate, to doubt 
 my justice or the King my father's that are sedentary 
 folk and known in the land." 
 
 "Nay," said the elder brother, "you have all else, 
 have patience also; and suffer me to say the world is 
 full of touchstones, and it appears not easily which is 
 true." 
 
 " 1 have no shame of mine," said the younger brother. 
 "There it is, and look in it." 
 
 So the elder brother looked in the mirror, and he was 
 sore amazed ; for he was an old man, and his hair was 
 white upon his head; and he sat down in the hall and 
 wept aloud. 
 
 "Now," said the younger brother, " see what a fool's 
 part you have played, that ran over all the world to 
 seek what was lying in our father's treasury, and came 
 
 494 
 
THE TOUCHSTONE 
 
 back an old carle for the dogs to bark at, and without 
 chick or child. And I that was dutiful and wise sit 
 here crowned with virtues and pleasures, and happy in 
 the light of my hearth." 
 
 "Methinks you have a cruel tongue," said the elder 
 brother; and he pulled out the clear pebble and turned 
 its light on his brother; and behold the man was lying, 
 his soul was shrunk into the smallness of a pea, and his 
 heart was a bag of little fears like scorpions, and love 
 was dead in his bosom. And at that the elder brother 
 cried out aloud, and turned the light of the pebble on 
 the maid, and lo ! she was but a mask of a woman, 
 and withinsides she was quite dead, and she smiled 
 as a clock ticks and knew not wherefore. 
 
 **0h, well," said the elder brother, "I perceive there 
 is both good and bad. So fare ye all as well as ye 
 may in the dun ; but I will go forth into the world with 
 my pebble in my pocket." 
 
 495 
 
XIX 
 
 THE POOR THING 
 
 There was a man in the islands who fished for his 
 bare bellyful, and took his life in his hands to go forth 
 upon the sea between four planks. But though he had 
 much ado, he was merry of heart; and the gulls heard 
 him laugh when the spray met him. And though he 
 had little lore, he was sound of spirit; and when the 
 fish came to his hook in the midwaters, he blessed 
 God without weighing. He was bitter poor in goods 
 and bitter ugly of countenance, and he had no wife. 
 
 It fell in the time of the fishing, that the man awoke 
 in his house about the midst of the afternoon. The 
 fire burned in the midst, and the smoke went up and 
 the sun came down by the chimney. And the man 
 was aware of the likeness of one that warmed his hands 
 at the red peats. 
 
 *'I greet you," said the man, *' in the name of God." 
 
 **I greet you," said he that warmed his hands, **but 
 not in the name of God, for I am none of His; nor in 
 the name of Hell, for I am not of Hell. For I am but 
 a bloodless thing, less than wind and lighter than a 
 sound, and the wind goes through me like a net, and 
 I am broken by a sound and shaken by the cold." 
 
 **Be plain with me," said the man, '*and tell me 
 your name and of your nature." 
 
 aq6 
 
THE POOR THING 
 
 **My name," quoth the other, "is not yet named, 
 and my nature not yet sure. For I am part of a man ; 
 and I was a part of your fathers, and went out to fish 
 and fight with them in the ancient days. But now is 
 my turn not yet come; and I wait until you have a 
 wife, and then shall I be in your son, and a brave part 
 of him, rejoicing manfully to launch the boat into the 
 surf, skilful to direct the helm, and a man of might 
 where the ring closes and the blows are going." 
 
 ''This is a marvellous thing to hear," said the man; 
 *'and if you are indeed to be my son, I fear it will go 
 ill with you ; for I am bitter poor in goods and bitter 
 ugly in face, and I shall never get me a wife if I live to 
 the age of eagles." 
 
 ''All this have 1 come to remedy, my Father," said 
 the Poor Thing; "for we must go this night to the 
 little isle of sheep, where our fathers lie in the dead- 
 cairn, and to-morrow to the Earl's Hall, and there shall 
 you find a wife by my providing." 
 
 So the man rose and put forth his boat at the time 
 of the sunsetting; and the Poor Thing sat in the prow, 
 and the spray blew through his bones like snow, and 
 the wind whistled in his teeth, and the boat dipped 
 not with the weight of him. 
 
 "I am fearful to see you, my son," said the man. 
 *' For methinks you are no thing of God." 
 
 " It is only the wind that whistles in my teeth," said 
 the Poor Thing, "and there is no life in me to keep 
 it out." 
 
 So they came to the little isle of sheep, where the 
 surf burst all about it in the midst of the sea, and it 
 was all green with bracken, and all wet with dew, and 
 
 497 
 
FABLES 
 
 the moon enlightened it. They ran the boat into a 
 cove, -and set foot to land ; and the man came heavily 
 behind among the rocks in the deepness of the bracken, 
 but the Poor Thing went before him like a smoke in 
 the light of the moon. So they came to the dead- 
 cairn, and they laid their ears to the stones; and the 
 dead complained withinsides like a swarm of bees: 
 "Time was that marrow was in our bones, and 
 strength in our sinews; and the thoughts of our head 
 were clothed upon with acts and the words of men. 
 But now are we broken in sunder, and the bonds of 
 our bones are loosed, and our thoughts lie in the dust." 
 
 **Then said the Poor Thing: "Charge them that 
 they give you the virtue they withheld." 
 
 And the man said: " Bones of my fathers, greeting! 
 for 1 am sprung of your loins. And now behold 1 break 
 open the piled stones of your cairn, and I let in the 
 noon between your ribs. Count it well done, for it 
 was to be; and give me what I come seeking in the 
 name of blood and in the name of God." 
 
 And the spirits of the dead stirred in the cairn like 
 ants; and they spoke: "You have broken the roof of 
 our cairn and let in the noon between our ribs; and 
 you have the strength of the still-living. But what 
 virtue have we? what power? or what jewel here in 
 the dust with us, that any living man should covet or 
 receive it ? for we are less than nothing. But we tell 
 you one thing, speaking with many voices like bees, 
 that the way is plain before all like the grooves of 
 launching: So forth into life and fear not, for so did 
 we all in the ancient ages." And their voices passed 
 away like an eddy in a river. 
 
THE POOR THING 
 
 **No^v," said the Poor Thing, '*they have told you 
 a lesson, but make them give you a gift. Stoop your 
 hand among the bones without drawback, and you 
 shall find their treasure." 
 
 So the man stooped his hand, and the dead laid hold 
 upon it many and faint like ants; but he shook them 
 off, and behold, what he brought up in his hand was 
 the shoe of a horse, and it was rusty. 
 
 *' It is a thing of no price," quoth the man, **for it is 
 rusty." 
 
 **We shall see that," said the Poor Thing; ''for in 
 my thought it is a good thing to do what our fathers 
 did, and to keep what they kept without question. 
 And in my thought one thing is as good as another in 
 this world; and a shoe of a horse will do." 
 
 Now they got into their boat with the horseshoe, and 
 when the dawn was come they were aware of the 
 smoke of the Earl's town and the bells of the Kirk that 
 beat. So they set foot to shore; and the man went up 
 to the market among the fishers over against the palace 
 and the Kirk; and he was bitter poor and bitter ugly, 
 and he had never a fish to sell, but only a shoe of a 
 horse in his creel, and it rusty. 
 
 "Now," said the Poor Thing, "do so and so, and 
 you shall find a wife and I a mother." 
 
 It befell that the Earl's daughter came forth to go into 
 the Kirk upon her prayers, and when she saw the poor 
 man stand in the market with only the shoe of a horse, 
 and it rusty, it came in her mind it should be a thing 
 of price. 
 
 "What is that ?" quoth she. 
 
 " It is a shoe of a horse," said the man. 
 499 
 
FABLES 
 
 "And what is the use of it?" quoth the Earl's 
 daughter. 
 
 ** It is for no use," said the man. 
 
 ** I may not believe that," said she; ** else why should 
 you carry it ? " 
 
 **I do so," said he, "because it was so my fathers 
 did in the ancient ages; and I have neither a better 
 reason nor a worse." 
 
 Now the Earl's daughter could not find it in her 
 mind to believe him. "Come," quoth she, "sell me 
 this, for I am sure it is a thing of price." 
 
 " Nay," said the man, "the thing is not for sale." 
 
 "What!" cried the Earl's daughter. "Then what 
 make you here in the town's market, with the thing in 
 your creel and nought beside ?" 
 
 " I sit here," says the man, "to get me a wife." 
 
 "There is no sense in any of these answers," thought 
 the Earl's daughter; "and I could find it in my heart 
 to weep." 
 
 By came the Earl upon that; and she called him and 
 told him all. And when he had heard, he was of his 
 daughter's mind that this should be a thing of virtue; 
 and charged the man to set a price upon the thing or 
 else be hanged upon the gallows, and that was near 
 at hand so that the man could see it. 
 
 "The way of life is straight like the grooves of launch- 
 ing," quoth the man. "And if 1 am to be hanged let 
 me be hanged." 
 
 "Why!" cried the Earl, "will you set your neck 
 against a shoe of a horse, and it rusty ? " 
 
 " In my thought," said the man, "one thing is as good 
 as another in this world; and a shoe of a horse will do." 
 
 500 
 
THE POOR THING 
 
 ''This can never be," thought the Earl, and he stood 
 and looked upon the man, and bit his beard. 
 
 And the man looked up at him and smiled. ** It was 
 so my fathers did in the ancient ages," quoth he to the 
 Earl, "and I have neither a better reason nor a worse." 
 
 "There is no sense in any of this," thought the Earl, 
 "and I must be growing old." So he had his daughter 
 on one side, and says he: "Many suitors have you 
 -denied, my child. But here is a very strange matter 
 that a man should cling so to a shoe of a horse, and 
 it rusty; and that he should offer it like a thing on sale, 
 and yet not sell it; and that he should sit there seeking a 
 wife. If I come not to the bottom of this thing, I shall 
 have no more pleasure in bread; and I can see no way, 
 but either I should hang or you should marry him." 
 
 " By my troth, but he is bitter ugly," said the Earl's 
 daughter. " How if the gallows be so near at hand ? " 
 
 "It was not so," said the Earl, "that my fathers did 
 in the ancient ages. I am like the man, and can give 
 you neither a better reason nor a worse. But do you, 
 prithee, speak with him again." 
 
 So the Earl's daughter spoke to the man. "If you 
 were not so bitter ugly," quoth she, "my father the 
 Earl would have us marry." 
 
 "Bitter ugly am I," said the man, "and you as fair 
 as May. Bitter ugly I am, and what of that ? It was 
 so my fathers ..." 
 
 "In the name of God," said the Earl's daughter, "let 
 you fathers be ! " 
 
 "If I had done that," said the man, "you had never 
 been chaffering with me here in the market, nor your 
 father the Earl watching with the end of his eye." 
 
 501 
 
FABLES 
 
 **But come," quoth the Earl's daughter, "this is a 
 very strange thing, that you would have me wed for a 
 shoe of a horse, and it rusty." 
 
 *Mn my thought," quoth the man, "one thing is as 
 good . . ." 
 
 " O, spare me that," said the Earl's daughter, "and 
 tell me why 1 should marry." 
 
 " Listen and look," said the man. 
 
 Now the wind blew through the Poor Thing like an 
 infant crying, so that her heart was melted; and her 
 eyes were unsealed, and she was aware of the thing as 
 it were a babe unmothered, and she took it to her 
 arms, and it melted in her arms like the air. 
 
 "Come," said the man, "behold a vision of our 
 children, the busy hearth, and the white heads. And 
 let that suffice, for it is all God offers." 
 
 "I have no delight in it," said she, but with that 
 she sighed. 
 
 "The ways of life are straight like the grooves of 
 launching," said the man, and he took her by the hand. 
 
 "And what shall we do with the horseshoe?" 
 quoth she. 
 
 "I will give it to your father," said the man; "and 
 he can make a Kirk and a mill of it for me." 
 
 It came to pass in time that the Poor Thing was 
 born, but memory of these matters slept within him, 
 and he knew not that which he had done. But he 
 was a part of the eldest son ; rejoicing manfully to 
 launch the boat into the surf, skilful to direct the helm, 
 and a man of might where the ring closes and the 
 blows are going. 
 
 503 
 
XX 
 
 THE SONG OF THE MORROW 
 
 The King of Duntrine had a daughter when he was 
 old, and she was the fairest King's daughter between 
 two seas; her hair was like spun gold and her eyes 
 like pools in a river; and the King gave her a castle 
 upon the sea beach, with a terrace, and a court of the 
 hewn stone, and four towers at the four corners. Here 
 she dwelt and grew up, and had no care for the mor- 
 row and no power upon the hour, after the manner 
 of simple men. 
 
 It befell that she walked one day by the beach of the 
 sea, when it was autumn, and the wind blew from the 
 place of rains ; and upon the one hand of her the sea 
 beat, and upon the other the dead leaves ran. This 
 was the loneliest beach between two seas, and strange 
 things had been done there in the ancient ages. Now 
 the King's daughter was aware of a crone that sat upon 
 the beach. The sea foam ran to her feet, and the dead 
 leaves swarmed about her back, and the rags blew 
 about her face in the blowing of the wind. 
 
 *'Now," said the King's daughter, and she named 
 a holy name, "this is the most unhappy old crone 
 between two seas." 
 
 ** Daughter of a King," said the crone, "you dwell 
 in a stone house, and your hair is like the gold, but 
 
 503 
 
FABLES 
 
 what is your profit ? Life is not long, nor lives strong; 
 and you live after the way of simple men, and have no 
 thought for the morrow and no power upon the hour." 
 
 "Thought for the morrow, that I have," said the 
 King's daughter; **but power upon the hour, that 
 have I not." And she mused with herself. 
 
 Then the crone smote her lean hands one within the 
 other, and laughed like a seagull. " Home," cried she, 
 *' O daughter of a King, home to your stone house, for 
 the longing is come upon you now, nor can you live 
 any more after the manner of simple men. Home, and 
 toil and suffer, till the gift come that will make you 
 bare, and till the man come that will bring you care." 
 
 The King's daughter made no more ado, but she 
 turned about and went home to her house in silence. 
 And when she was come into her chamber she called 
 for her nurse. 
 
 *' Nurse," said the King's daughter, "thought is 
 come upon me for the morrow, so that I can live no 
 more after the manner of simple men. Tell me what I 
 must do that I may have power upon the hour." 
 
 Then the nurse moaned like a snow wind. ' ' Alas ! " 
 said she, "that this thing should be; but the thought 
 is gone into your marrow, nor is there any cure against 
 the thought. Be it so, then, even as you will ; though 
 power is less than weakness, power shall you have; 
 and though the thought is colder than winter, yet shall 
 you think it to an end." 
 
 So the King's daughter sat in her vaulted chamber in 
 the masoned house, and she thought upon the thought. 
 Nine years she sat; and the sea beat upon the terrace, 
 and the gulls cried about the turrets, and wind crooned 
 
 504 
 
THE SONG OF THE MORROW 
 
 in the chimneys of the house. Nine years she came 
 not abroad, nor tasted the clean air, neither saw God's 
 sky. Nine years she sat and looked neither to the right 
 nor to the left, nor heard speech of anyone, but thought 
 upon the thought of the morrow. And her nurse fed 
 her in silence, and she took of the food with her left 
 hand and ate it without grace. 
 
 Now when the nine years were out, it fell dusk in 
 the autumn, and there came a sound in the wind like a 
 sound of piping. At that the nurse lifted up her finger 
 in the vaulted house. 
 
 " I hear a sound in the wind," said she, ** that is like 
 the sound of piping." 
 
 'Mt is but a little sound," said the King's daughter, 
 **but yet it is sound enough for me." 
 
 So they went down in the dusk to the doors of the 
 house, and along the beach of the sea. And the waves 
 beat upon the one hand, and upon the other the dead 
 leaves ran; and the clouds raced in the sky, and the 
 gulls flew widdershins. And when they came to that 
 part of the beach where strange things had been done 
 in the ancient ages, lo, there was the crone, and she 
 was dancing widdershins. 
 
 "What makes you dance widdershins, old crone?" 
 said the King's daughter, **here upon the bleak beach 
 between the waves and the dead leaves ? " 
 
 **I hear a sound in the wind that is like a sound 
 of piping," quoth she. ** And it is for that that I dance 
 widdershins. For the gift comes that will make you 
 bare, and the man comes that must bring you care. 
 But for me the morrow is come that I have thought 
 upon, and the hour of my power." 
 
 505 
 
FABLES 
 
 "How comes it, crone," said the King's daughter, 
 **that you waver like a rag, and pale like a dead leaf 
 before my eyes ? " 
 
 ** Because the morrow has come that I have thought 
 upon, and the hour of my power," said the crone, and 
 she fell on the beach, and lo! she was but stalks of the 
 sea tangle, and dust of the sea sand, and the sand lice 
 hopped upon the place of her. 
 
 "This is the strangest thing that befell between two 
 seas," said the King's daughter of Duntrine. 
 
 But the nurse broke out and moaned like an autumn 
 gale. " I am weary of the wind," quoth she, and she 
 bewailed her day. 
 
 The King's daughter was aware of a man upon the 
 beach, he went hooded so that none might perceive 
 his face; and a pipe was underneath his arm. The 
 sound of his pipe was like singing wasps and like the 
 wind that sings in windlestraw; and it took hold upon 
 men's ears like the crying of gulls. 
 
 "Are you the comer?" quoth the King's daughter 
 of Duntrine. 
 
 "I am the comer," said he, "and these are the pipes 
 that a man may hear, and I have power upon the hour, 
 and this is the song of the morrow." And he piped 
 the song of the morrow, and it was as long as years, 
 and the nurse wept out aloud at the hearing of it. 
 
 "This is true," said the King's daughter, "that you 
 pipe the song of the morrow; but that ye have power 
 upon the hour, how may I know that? Show me a 
 marvel here upon the beach between the waves and 
 the dead leaves." 
 
 And the man said, " Upon whom ?" 
 506 
 
THE SONG OF THE MORROW 
 
 ''Here is my nurse," quoth the King's daughter. 
 "She is weary of the wind. Show me a good marvel 
 upon her." 
 
 And lo the nurse fell upon the beach as it were two 
 handfuls of dead leaves, and the wind whirled them 
 widdershins, and the sand lice hopped between. 
 
 "It is true," said the King's daughter of Duntrine; 
 "you are the comer, and you have power upon the 
 hour. Come with me to my stone house." 
 
 So they went by the sea margin, and the man piped 
 the song of the morrow, and the leaves followed behind 
 them as they went. Then they sat down together; 
 and the sea beat on the terrace, and the gulls cried 
 about the towers, and the wind crooned in the chim- 
 neys of the house. Nine years they sat^ and every 
 year when it fell autumn, the man said, "This is the 
 hour, and I have power in it," and the daughter of the 
 King said, "Nay, but pipe me the song of the mor- 
 row." And he piped it, and it was long like years. 
 
 Now when the nine years were gone, the King's 
 daughter of Duntrine got her to her feet, like one that 
 remembers; and she looked about her in the masoned 
 house; and all her servants were gone; only the man 
 that piped sat upon the terrace with the hand upon his 
 face, and as he piped the leaves ran about the terrace 
 and the sea beat along the wall. Then she cried to 
 him with a great voice, "This is the hour, and let me 
 see the power of it." And with that the wind blew 
 off the hand from the man's face, and lo, there was no 
 man there, only the clothes and the hand and the pipes 
 tumbled one upon another in a corner of the terrace, 
 and the dead leaves ran over them. 
 
 50/ 
 
FABLES 
 
 And the King's daughter of Duntrine got her to that 
 part of the beach where strange things had been done 
 in the ancient ages, and there she sat her down. The 
 sea foam ran to her feet, and the dead leaves swarmed 
 about her back, and the veil blew about her face in the 
 blowing of the wind. And when she lifted up her 
 eyes, there was the daughter of a King come walking 
 on the beach. Her hair was like the spun gold, and 
 her eyes like pools in a river, and she had no thought 
 for the morrow and no power upon the hour, after the 
 manner of simple men. 
 
 508 
 
v. to