THREE PLAYS THREE PLAYS By W. E. HENLEY and R. L. STEVENSON DEACON BRODIE BEAU AUSTIN ADMIRAL GUINEA I NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1S92 Copyright, 1892, by W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson \AU rights reserved'] TROW DIRECTORY PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK r { v CONTENTS PAGE DEACON BRODIE i BEAU AUSTIN in ADMIRAL GUINEA . . . .177 DEACON BRODIE OR THE DOUBLE LIFE A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS AND EIGHT TABLEAUX PERSONS REPRESENTED William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter. Old Brodie, the Deacon's Father, William Lawson, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon's Uncle. Andrew Ainslie, \ Humphrey Moore, > Robbers in the Deacon's gang. George Smith, ) Captain Rivers, an English Highwayman. Hunt, a Bow Street Runner. A Doctor. Walter Leslie. Mary Brodie, the Deacon's Sister. Jean Watt, the Deacon's Mistress. Vagabonds, Officers of the Watch, Men-servants. The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the Eighteenth Century. The action, some fifty hours long, begins at eight p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday Note. — Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed in square brackets, thus [ ]. SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX ACT I. tableau I The Double Life. tableau ii Hunt the Runner. tableau in Mother Clarke's. ACT IT. tableau iv Evil and Good. ACT III. tableau v King's Evidence. tableau vi. ...'.... Unmasked. ACT IV. tableau vii. The Robbery. ACT V. tableau viii The Open Door. LONDON: PRINCE'S THEATRE zd July 18S4 Deacon Brodie, Walter Leslie, William Lawsox, Andrew Ainslie, Humphrey Moore George Smith, Hunt, Old Brodie, . Captain Rivers, Mary Brodie, Jean Watt, . Mr. E. J. Henley. Mr. Charles Cartwright. Mr. John Maclean. Mr. Fred. Desmond. Mr. Edmund Grace. Mr. Julian Cross. Mr. Hubert Akhurst Mr. A. Knight. Mr. Brandon Thomas. Miss Lizzie Williams. Miss Minnie Bell. MONTREAL Deacon Brodie, Walter Leslie, William Lawson, Andrew Ainslie, Humphrey Moore, George Smith, Hunt, Captain Rivers, Mary Brodie, Jean Watt, . 26/// September 1887 Mr. E. J. Henley. Mr. Graham Stewart. Mr. Edmund Lyons. Mr. Fred. Desmond. Mr. Edmund Grace. Mr. Horatio Saker. Mr. Henry Vernon. Mr. Bruce Philips. Miss Annie Robe. Miss Carrie Coote. ACT I TABLEAU I The Double Life The Stage represents a room in the Deacotfs house, furnished partly as a sitting-, partly as a bed-room, in the style of an easy burgess of about 17S0. 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 con taining 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 ? I Mary. Why not ? j Leslie. I scarce knew where to find you. c r T 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 ! I DEACON BRODIE OR Leslie. I ? And with regard to the Deacon ? j Believe me, I am not so ill-advised. You have C r T 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 filrther ? We are a righting 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 without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears pulled for a meddlesome minx ! He used to give me his mallet to keep and his nails to hold ; and didn't I fly when he called for them ! and wasn't I proud to be ordered about with them ! And then, you know, there is the tall cabinet yonder ; that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the father's chair, and the sister's 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 I promise you I never will again. 2 THE DOUBLE LIFE Mary. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness ? j Leslie. Candidly, I do not. o MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with Willie and my uncle ? Leslie. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has not much thought just now for any- thing but those mysterious burglaries Mary. I know ! Leslie. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is politician and citizen ; and he has been striving his hardest to undermine the Deacon's prin- ciples, and win the Deacon's vote and interest. Mary. They are worth having, are they not ? Leslie. The Procurator seems to think that hav- ing 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, 3 Sc. i DEACON BRODIE OR cockades, guineas, candidates, and all! — how should j I care for it ? What are Whig and Tory to me ? Mary. O fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in the common weal. Mr. Leslie — Leslie of the Craig! — should know that much at least. LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon ? All in good time, but not now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more I slipped out and followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome. Mary. I suppose you mean to be unkind. Leslie. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away ? And is it usual for a young lady to say ' Mr.' to the man she means to marry ? Mary. That is for the young lady to decide, sir. Leslie. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal ? Mary. O, if you mean to argue ! Leslie. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be loved. I think I am the happiest man in the world. Mary. That is as it should be ; for I am the happiest girl. Leslie. Why not say the happiest wife ? I have your word, and you have mine. Is not that enough ? Mary. Have you so soon forgotten ? Did I not tell you how it must be as my brother wills ? I can do only as he bids me. Leslie. Then you have not spoken as you prom- ised ? 4 Sc. i THE DOUBLE LIFE Mary. I have been too happy to speak. I LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he j 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 mar- riage I should find it hard to say ' Yes ' when he said ' No.' Leslie. Your father is trying to speak. I'll wager he echoes you. Mary {to Old Brodie). My poor dearie ! Do you want to say anything to me ? No ? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then ? Leslie. I am listening, Mr. Brodie. Mary. What is it, daddie? Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon Brodie — the first at school. Leslie. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class ? {To Mary.) But he seems to have forgotten us. Mary. O yes ! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours as you see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of Will's hand or the sound of Will's name. Leslie. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will 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 5 Sc. i DEACON BRODIE OR touch him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my I 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 families, we Brodies. We are so clannish, we hold so close together. Leslie. You Brodies, and your Deacon ! Old Brodie. Deacon of his craft, sir — Deacon of the Wrights — my son ! If his mother — his mother — had but lived to see ! Mary. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he catches it. 'Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon's care for him and all the Deacon's kindness to me. I believe he only lives in the thought of the Deacon. There, it is not so long since I was one with him. But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies. Are we not, daddie dear ? Brodie [without, and entering). You are a mighty magistrate, Procurator, but you seem to have met your match. SCENE II To these, Brodie and Lawson Sc. 2 Mary (curtseying). So, uncle ! you have honoured us at last. Lawson. Quamprimum, my dear, quamprimum. Brodie. Well, father, do you know me ? (He sits beside his father and takes his hand.) 6 THE DOUBLE LIFE [Old Brodie. William — ay — Deacon. Greater I man — than — his father. j Brodie. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh o to him as it was five years ago. He was struck down before he got the Deaconship, and lives his lost life in mine. Lawson. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to his name. He was kind of hurt when first they made me Procurator.] Mary. And what have you been talking of? Lawson. Just o' thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown offeecial, I tak' the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies. Leslie. Egad, Procurator, and so do I. Brodie {with a quick look at Leslie). A dilet- tante interest, doubtless ! See what it is to be idle. Leslie. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it. Brodie. At any rate, 'tis not the interest of a vic- tim, or we should certainly have known of it before ; nor a practical tool-mongering interest, like my own ; nor an interest professional and official, like the Proc- urator's. You can answer for that, I suppose ? Leslie. I think I can ; if for no more. It's an interest of my own, you see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no manner of moment to any- 1 body. [It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a month of Sundays.] 7 DEACON BRODIE OR Brodie. You are more fortunate than you deserve. j What do you say, Procurator ? c r 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 Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the cata- marans 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, vi et clam, into Leddy Mar'get Dalziel's, and left her leddyship wi' no sae muckle's a spune to sup her parritch wi'. It's unbelievable, it's awful, it's anti- christian ! Mary. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would make ! But tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such things, in the midst of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them —nothing at all ? Leslie. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several in the gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman. Lawson. Ye're right, sir ; ye're vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had been deponed to me offeecially that no a tradesman — no the Deacon here himsel' — could have made a cleaner job wi' Andra Simpson's shut- ters. And as for the lock o' the bank — but that's an auld sang. Brodie. I think you believe too much, Procurator. 8 THE DOUBLE LIFE Rumour's an ignorant jade, I tell you. I've had occa- \ sion to see some little of their handiwork — broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors — and I find them bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself ! Leslie. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I back myself to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work of skill within ? Brodie. An opposition company ? Leslie, your mind is full of good things. Suppose we begin to- night, and give the Procurator's house the honours of our innocence ? Mary. You could do anything, you two ! Lawson. Onyway, Deacon, ye'd put your ill-gotten gains to a right use ; they might come by the wind but they wouldna gang wi' the water ; and that's aye a solatium, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like to be robbit wi' decent folk ; and no think o' my bonnie clean siller dirling among jads and dicers. [Faith, William, the mair I think on 't, the mair I'm o' Mr. Leslie's mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and I'se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window forbye ! Brodie. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation. (Leslie and Mary talk apart.) LAWSON. I'm no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca 't.] But hark i' your ear : ye're likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in partnership wi' Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a body can see that. 9 I Sc. 2 DEACON BRODIE OR I [Brodie. ' Daffin' and want o' wit ' — you know the I Sc. 2 rest. Lawson. Vidi, scivi, et atidivi, as we say in a Sasine, William.] Man, because my wig's pouthered do ye think I havena a green heart ? I was aince a lad mysel', and I ken fine by the glint o' the e'e when a lad's fain and a lassie's willing. And, man, it's the town's talk; communis error fit jus, ye ken. [Old Brodie. Oh ! Lawson. See, ye're hurting your faither's hand. Brodie. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill- tempered son. Lawson. What the deevil ails ye at the match ? 'Od, man, he has a nice bit divot o' Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his cellar ! But I needna speak o' the Bordeaux ; ye'll ken the smack o't as weel's I do mysel' ; onyway it's grand wine. Tantum et tale. I tell ye the pro's, find you the con.'s, if ye're able.] BRODIE. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.] You are talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject [and it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing]. Leslie. At four o'clock to-morrow ? At my house? {to Mary). Mary. As soon as church is done. (Exit Mary.) Lawson. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, ony- way. 10 THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies — you know our failings ! [A bad temper and j a humour of privacy.] c r Lawson. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak' a doch-an-dorach, William ; sufier- fina non nocent, as we say ; an extra dram hurts nae- body, 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 ? g^ <j Lawson (aside). Lord's sake, it's Smith! Brodie (to Smith). I beg your pardon ? Smith. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir ? Brodie. What do you want with him, my man ? Smith. I've a message for him, sir, a job of work, sir ! Brodie (to Smith ; referring to Jean). And who is this ? 1 1 Sc. 3 DEACON BRODIE OR I Jean. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. j There's nae offence, I hope, sir. Lawson. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton's Wynd. It'll be for the rent ? Jean. Just that, sir. Lawson. Weel, we 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 Sc. 4 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 horti- culture ? Ha, it is! (At the mirror.) In that case George's mother bids him bind his hair. (Kisses his hand.) My dearest Duchess,— (T^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. 12 THE DOUBLE LIFE Jean. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' I nane o' that sort of talk frae you. And what kind o' j a man are you to even yoursel' to the likes o' him ? c He's a gentleman. Smith. Ah, ain't he just ! And don't he live up to it ? I say, Jean, feel of this chair. Jean. My ! look at yon bed ! Smith. The carpet too ! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell ! Jean. What a expense ! Smith. Hey, brandy ! The deuce of the grape I Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt. [(Slugs) — ' Says Bacchus to Venus, There's brandy between us, And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl ! '] Jean. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith. Smith. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons at Mother Clarke's ; but ah, George, you was born for a higher spear ! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't. (Seeing Old Brodie/^ 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. 13 I Sc. 4 DEACON BRODIE OR I Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon of his trade. Jean. He'll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C, and stands looking on.) Smith. The Deacon's old man ! Well, he couldn't expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (To Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more 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 we are, its the least we can do to behave dacent. [This is no the way ye'll mak' me like ye.] Smith. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry. SCENE V To these, Hunt, C. {He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder?) Sc. K 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 ? H Sc. 5 THE DOUBLE LIFE HUNT. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my I hands. (To Old Brodie.) You'll excuse me, old x genelman ? Smith. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friend- ship ! . . . 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 the blinkers, my dear ? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt that might be your born father ? [But all this don't tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.] 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, muffler, lantern). Lawson (from the door). Come your ways, Sc. 6 Mistress Watt. 15 Sc. 6 DEACON BRODIE OR I Jean. That's the Fiscal himsel'. t Hunt. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe ? Lawson. That's me. Who'll you be ? Hunt. Hunt the Runner, sir ; Hunt from Bow- Street ; English warrant. Lawson. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways to my office, with me and this guid wife. Brodie (aside to Jean, as she passes with a curtsey). How dare you be here ? {Aloud to Smith.) Wait you here, my man. Smith. If you please, sir. (Brodie goes out, C.) SCENE VII Brodie, Smith Sc_ 7 Brodie. What the devil brings you here ? Smith. C<?//found it, Deakin ! Not rusty ? [Brodie. And not you only : Jean too ! Are you mad ? Smith. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire ? Plummy old George ?] Brodie. There was my uncle the Procurator Smith. The Fiscal ? He don't count. Brodie. What d'ye mean ? Smith. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson's Nunkev Lawson, and it's all in the family way, I don't mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson's a 16 Sc. 7 THE DOUBLE LIFE customer of George's. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy — G. S. and Co.'s celebrated t 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 Procu- rator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue ? [Allots / It's enough to cure a man of vice for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith ; this is all damned well in its way, but it don't explain what brings you here. Smith. I've trapped a pigeon for you. Brodie. Can't you pluck him yourself? Smith. Not me. He's too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It's the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. [He's exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. ' Stand and deliver, stap my vitals ! '] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin. Brodie. Flush ? Smith (mimicking). ' The graziers, split me ! A mail, stap my vitals ! and seven demned farmers, by the Lard — ' Brodie. By Gad ! Smith. Good for trade, ain't it ? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and me, that coins being ever on 17 Sc. 7 DEACON BRODIE OR the vanish, and you not over sweet on them there j lovely little locks at Leslie's, and them there bigger and uglier marine stores at the Excise Office. . . . Brodie {impassible). Go on. Smith. Worse luck ! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that maybe you'd like to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant horseman. Brodie. The old move, I presume ? the double set of dice ? Smith. That's the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and Co.'s own agent and 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. \Thafs the way we does it !] Brodie. Who has the dice ? Smith. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm. Brodie. You mean Ainslie ? — We trust that crea- ture too much, Geordie. Smith. He's all right, Marcpuis. He wouldn't lay a finger on his own mother. Why, he's no more guile in him than a set of sheep's trotters. [Brodie. You think so ? Then see he don't cheat you over the dice, and give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to that ; and you may count the Captain as bare as his last grazier. 18 Sc. 7 THE DOUBLE LIFE Smith. The Black Flag forever ! George'll trot I him round to Mother Clarke's in two twos.] How j long'll you be ? Brodie. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I'll be with you. Can you find your way out ? Smith. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta. SCENE VIII Brodie, Old Brodie ; to whom, Mary Mary. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with Sc. 8 them. I have something to tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will. But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell him ! But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and takes a part in all our joys and sorrows ; and it is only his poor body that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and -ask me questions — or guess — that will be better, guess. Brodie. Not to-night, Mary ; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and they won't wait. Mary. Not one minute for your sister ? One little minute for your little sister? Brodie. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and the clock is always busy. Sc.8 DEACON BRODIE OR They are waiting for me even now. Help me with j the dad's chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And to-morrow morning I will hear your news — your good news ; it must be good, you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be. Mary. I hate your business — I hate all business. To think of chairs, and tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden — and cold pieces of money with the King's ugly head on them ; and here is your sister, your pretty sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you won't ? — Not you ! For business ! Fie, Deacon Brodie ! But I'm too happy to find fault with you. BRODIE. ' And me a Deacon,' as the Procurator would say. Mary. No such thing, sir ! I am not a bit afraid of you — nor a bit angry neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow morning. Brodie. All day long to-morrow, if you like. Mary. Business or none ? Brodie. Business or none, little sister ! I'll make time, I promise you ; and there's another kiss for surety. Come along. ( They proceed to push out the chair, L.C.) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given me one of my headaches, and I'm in haste for bed. You'll be good, won't you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow morning till I wake ? 20 THE DOUBLE LIFE Mary. Poor Will ! How selfish I must have I seemed ! You should have told me sooner, and I j wouldn't have worried you. Come along. (She goes out, pushing chair.) Sc.8 SCENE IX Brodie {He closes, locks, and double-bolts both doors) Brodie. Now for one of the Deacon's headaches ! Sc. Rogues all, rogues all! {Goes to clothes-press, and proceeds to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the new life ! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber ! {Changing neck-band 'ana 'ruffles.) Eh God ! how still the house is ! There's something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would the world be ? [The city has its vizard on, and we — at night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping ; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is !] — How still it is ! . . . My father and Mary — Well ! the day for them, the night for me ; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have half a life of his own ? — not eight hours out of twenty-four ? [Eight shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet.] {Takes out money.) Where's the blunt ? I must be cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win ; damn you, you must ! You 21 Sc. 9 DEACON BRODIE OR must win back the dowry that you've stolen, and j marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little longer ! (As he blows out the lights) The Deacon's going to bed — the poor sick Deacon ! Allons ! (Throws up the window, and looks out.) Only the stars to see me ! (Addressing the bed.) Lie there, Deacon ! sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I'm a man once more till morning. (Gels out of the window.) TABLEAU II Hunt the Runner The Scene represents the Procurator 1 s Office. SCENE I Lawson, Hunt [LAWSON (entering). Step your ways in, Officer. II Sc. i (At whig) Mr. Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam' in wi' me. Nae news ? A VOICE without. Naething, sir. Lawson (sitting). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you ?] Hunt. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English warrant for the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, alias Captain Starlight, now at large within your jurisdiction. Lawson. That'll be the highwayman ? HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain's given me a hard hunt of it this time. I 22 Sc. i THE DOUBLE LIFE dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard TT of him all along the York road, for he's a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of it for the Border ; but he'd a better nag, and was best up in the road ; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort of gentleman, and I'm an active man myself. And Sir John Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he's an active gentleman, likewise, though he's blind as ahim- age, 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 primron. And see here, Hunt, ye'll aiblins have a while to yoursel', and an active man, as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We're sair forfeuchen wi' our burglaries. Non con- stat de persona. We canna get a grip o' the delin- quents. Here is the Hue and Cry. Ye see there is a guid two hundred pounds for ye. Hunt. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain't a rich man, and two hundred's two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don't mind telling you I've had a bit of a worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to 23 Sc. i DEACON BRODIE OR look into a ken to-night about the Captain, and an jj 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. Pro- curator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if what's a black sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh ? Lawson. Coelum non animum. A just observe. Hunt. I'll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can't kill two birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I'd like to have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her rent. Lawson. Hunt, that's a very decent woman. Hunt. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don't know what the profession would do 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) Sc. 2 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 24 THE DOUBLE LIFE they go on calling themselves thief-catchers ! [By I Jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South ! jj Well, I've worn out a good deal of saddle leather c over Jemmy Rivers ; but here's for new breeches if you like.] Let's have another queer at the list. (Reads.) ' Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger ; aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped ; has been a prize-fighter ; no apparent occupation.' Badger's an old friend of mine, ' George Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie ; red-haired and curly, slight, flash ; an old thimble-rig ; has been a stroller ; suspected of smuggling ; an associate of loose women.' G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. ' Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie ; aged thirty -five ; thin, white-faced, lank-haired ; no occupation ; has been in trouble for reset of theft and subornation of youth ; might be useful as king's evidence.' That's an acquaintance to make. 'Jock Hamilton, otherwise Sweepie,' and so on. [' Willie M'Glashan,' hum — yes, and so on, and so on.] Ha ! here's the man I want. ' William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty ; tall, slim, dark ; wears his own hair ; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for purposes of amusement only ; [is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal ; is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been short of cash ; has lost much at cock-fighting ;] is proud, clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps low company.' Now, here's what I ask myself : here's 25 Sc. 2 DEACON BRODIE OR this list of the family party that drop into Mother jr 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, its the man's trade ! I'll look you up, Mr. William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's Jerry Hunt, I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that 'ere two hundred ! SCENE III Hunt ; to him Jean HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your 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 gentle- man — 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 26 Sc.3 Sc. 3 THE DOUBLE LIFE might be your parent ; a cove renowned for the ladies' friend [and he's dead certain to be on your IT side]. What I can't get over is this : here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young 'oman like you — as a cove may say — to take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get over, Mrs. Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it. Jean. And whae said that to ye ? They lee'd 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 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 amighty 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 27 DEACON BRODIE OR crown ; but I don't know what it cost, and I don't II Sc. 3 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) Sc. 4 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 hun- dred you'd be a disgrace to the profession. TABLEAU III Mother Clarke's SCENE I The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance ; settles, spittoons, etc. ; sanded floor. A large table at back, inhere Ainslih, HAMILTON, and others are playing cards and quarrelling: In front, T L. and R. smaller tables, at one of which are Brodie and Moorh, drinking. Mrs. Clarkb and women serving. 111 Moore. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, oC. I that's what you've got. 28 THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie. Luck ! Don't talk of luck to a man like I me! Why not say I've the devil's own judgment? jjj Men of my stamp don't risk— they plan, Badger ; c they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you [and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take them]. MOORE. You're artful, ain't you? Brodie. Should I be here else ? When I leave my house I leave an alibi behind me. I'm ill — ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend's own temper. I'm sick in bed this minute, and they're all going about with the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon. [My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank — you remember ! — and all the while the window's open, and the Deacon's over the hills and far away. What do you think of me ?] MOORE. I've seen your sort before, I have. Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie's MOORE. That was a nick above you. Brodie. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red- handed ; and that was better luck than I deserved. If I'd not been drunk, and in my tantrums, you'd never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job. Moore. Why not ? You're the King of the Cracksmen, ain't you? Brodie. Why not ! He asks me why not ! Gods, what a brain it is ! Hark ye, Badger, it's all very 29 DEACON BRODIE OR I well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it ; but III however respectable he may have the misfortune to Sc I k e ' one ' s friend is one's friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What ! shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among politicians ? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you've drunk, and who has babbled of woman across your own mahogany — that lock, sir, were entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scot- land ; 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 busi- ness. 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 '11 make it worth my while. If not, muck ! That's my motto. Wot I now ses is, about that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos I right, I ses ? or wos I wrong ? That's wot's the matter with you. Brodie. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was drunk ; I was upon my mettle ; ' and I as good as did it. More than that, black- guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my • 30 THE DOUBLE LIFE friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled ni along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. o T 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 win- dow, 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, 3i DEACON BRODIE OR and for good, or I shall drop you. {He rises, and III Sc. i walks backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily. Then returns, and sits L., as before.) SCENE II To these, Hunt, disguised He is disguised as a '■Jlying stationer'' ivitk a patch over his eye. He sits at table opposite Brodie's, and is served ivitk bread and cheese and beer Sc_ 2 HAMILTON {from behind). The deevil tak' the cairts ! Ainslie. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts. MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT looks up at the name of ' Deacon.') Brodie. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You have a set of the most commercial intentions !] You make me blush. MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about the chips ? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering old Excise Office, I am. That's my motto. Brodie. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of warms my heart. But it's not mine. Moore. Muck ! why not ? Brodie. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George ; he has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and it's three 32 THE DOUBLE LIFE hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the stars.] It ceases to be business ; it m turns politics, and I'm not a politician, Mr. Moore. c 2 (Risifig.) I'm only Deacon Brodie. MOORE. All right. I can wait. Brodie (seeing Hunt). Ha, a new face, — and with a patch ! [There's nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who the devil, sir, are you that own it ? And where did you get it ? And how much will you take for it second- hand ? HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (Brodie bows) it's not for sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health in anything. Brodie. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you, and what part of southern Scotland do you come from ? Hunt. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth [Brodie (bowing). Your obleeged !] Hunt. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell your honour the truth Brodie. Je vous baise les mains / (Bowing.)] HUNT. A gentleman 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 ? 33 Sc. 2 DEACON BRODIE OR I Hunt. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. ttj Brodie. Is it possible ? All my life long have I been pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials ! Embrace me, at a distance. [A patter-cove from Seven Dials !] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He's a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo ! what's all this ? Ainslie. Dod, I'm for nae mair ! (At back, and rising.) Players. Sit down, Ainslie. — Sit down, Andra. — Ma revenge ! Ainslie. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. {Coming forward with bottle.) Deacon, let's see your gless. Brodie. Not an inch of it. MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon ! [Ainslie. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless. Brodie. Go to the deuce !] Ainslie. But I'm sayin' Brodie. Haven't I to play to-night ? Ainslie. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt ? BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. A la rcine 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! 34 THE DOUBLE LIFE I SCENE III m To these, Smith, Rivers Sc. 3 Smith. Where's my beloved ? Deakin, my beauty, where are you ? Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers ! Capting, the Deakin : Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard ! Rivers. Stupendously 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. Rivers. Prettily put, sink me ! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals !] Brodie. Oh Captain ! you flatter me. [We Scots- men 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 neigh- bourhood. That d d thing, the je lie 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 passa- tively too much]. What will you sip ? Give it the //anar of a neam. 35 DEACON BRODIE OR Brodie. By these most /^anarable hands now, III Sc.3 Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight ! Down with you, Captain ! [forcing him boisterously into a chair.) I don't know if you can lie, but, sink me ! you shall sit. [Drinking, etc., in dumb-show.) Moore (aside to Smith). We've nobbled him, Geordie ! Smith (aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence ! He's taking it down like mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger ! It'll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith. MOORE. O muck! Who's afraid of him? (To Ainslie.) Hang on, Slinkie. Hunt '(w/« is feigning drunkenness, and has over- heard j aside). By Jingo ! [Rivers. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir ? Brodie. Thanks ; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of your rappee. It is passa- tively perfect] Rivers. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the //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.) 36 1 THE DOUBLE LIFE AlNSLIE {aside to Moore). I'm sayin' ? I Moore. What's up now ? ,,, AlNSLIE. I'm no to gie him the coggit dice ? c Moore. The square ones, rot you ! Ain't he got " ^ to lose every brass farden ? Ainslie. What'H like be my share ? Moore. You mucking well leave that to me. Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a //elbow Brodie. Where are the bones, Ainslie ? Where are the dice, Lord George ? (Ainslie gives the dice and dice-box to Brodie ; and privately a second pair of dice.) Old Fortune's counters; the bonnie money - catching, money - breeding bones ! Hark to their dry music ! Scotland against Eng- land ! Sit down, 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 ? 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 afl the table. 37 Ill Sc. 3 DEACON BRODIE OR I Smith {picking up box). That's the way we does it. Ten to one and no takers ! Brodie. Deuces again ! More liquor, Mother Clarke ! Smith. Hooray our side ! [Pouring out .) George and his pal for ever ! Brodie. Deuces again, by heaven ! Another? Rivers. Done. Brodie. Ten more ; money's made to go. On with you ! Rivers. Sixes. Brodie. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits ? Rivers. Drive on ! Sixes. Smith. Fire away, brave boys! {To Moore.) It's Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump ! BRODIE. Treys ! Death and the pit ! How much have you got there ? Rivers. A cool forty-five. Brodie. I play you thrice the lot. Rivers. Who's afraid ? Smith. Stand by, Badger ! Rivers. Cinq-ace. Brodie. My turn now. {He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice .) Aces! Aces again ! What's this? {Picking up dice.) Sold! . . . You play false, you hound ! Rivers. You lie ! 38 Ill Sc. 5 THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie. In your teeth. {Overturns table and goes for him.) MOORE. Here, none o' that. {They hold him back. Struggle.) • JC * o 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, Ainslee, 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 ! {Becoming conscious of the others.) Rogues ! 39 DEACON BRODIE I Smith. Take my arm, Deacon. t -jt BRODIE. Down, dog, down ! [Stay and be drunk q ^ with your equals.] Gentlemen and ladies, I have ^ already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you — a very — good evening. (As he goes out, Hunt, who has beat staggering about in the crowd, falls on a settle, as about to sleep.) Act-Drop 40 ACT II TABLEAU IV Evil and Good The Stage represents the Deacon's workshop ; benches, shavings, tools, boards, and so forth. Doors, C. on the street, and L. into the house. Without, church bells ; not a chime, but a slow, broken tocsin. SCENE I II BRODIE {solus). My head ! my head ! It's the IV sickness of the grave. And those bells go on , . . oC. I go on ! . . . inexorable as death and judgment. [There they go ; the trumpets of respectability, sounding encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not to be found out. Found out ! And to those who are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.] Turn where I will are pitfalls hell- deep. Mary and her dowry ; Jean and her child — my child ; the dirty scoundrel Moore ; my uncle and his trust ; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime ; the whole canting, 4i DEACON RRODIE OR lying, double-dealing, beastly business ! ' My son 1V the Deacon — Deacon of the Wrights ! ' My thoughts c p T sicken at it. [Oh, the Deacon, the Deacon ! Where's a hat for the Deacon ? where's a hat for the Deacon's headache ? [searching). This place is a piggery. To be respectable and not to find one's hat.] SCENE II To him, Jean, a baby in her shawl. C. c c 2 Jean (who has entered silently during the Deacon's last words). It's me, Wullie. Brodie (turning upon her). What ! You here again ? [you again !] Jean. Deacon, I'm unco vexed. Brodie. Do you know what you do ? Do you know what you risk ? [Is there nothing — nothing ! — will make you spare me this idiotic, wanton 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 42 THE DOUBLE LIFE stay on alone, in this house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay [going). jy Jean. It's the man frae Bow Street. c Brodie. Bow Street ? Jean. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o' me ; but it's mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o' William Brodie ... ill as it sets me. Brodie. [You don't know what is on my mind, 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 angered wi'me, Wullie ! I said what I shouldna. Brodie. Said ? Said what ? Jean. Just that ye were a guid frien' to me. He made believe he was awfu' sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller ; and I said, ' Wha tellt him that ? ' and that he lee'd. Brodie. God knows he did ! What next ? Jean. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth ; and he keept aye harp, harpin' ; but after that let out, he got neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair ; and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae. Brodie. Where I got my siller ? Jean. Ay, that was it. ' You ken,' says he. Brodie. Did he ? and what said you ? 43 Sc. 2 DEACON BRODIE OR Jean. I couldna think on naething, but just that jy 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 cham- ber]. You women! Did he see Smith? Jean. Ay, and kennt him. Brodie. Damnation ! No, I'm not angry with you. But you see what I've to endure for you. Don't cry. [Here's the devil at the door, and we must bar him out as best we can. J 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 do 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'mawa. (Brodie, L.). 44 THE DOUBLE LIFE SCENE III II IV To these, Lawson, L. Sc. 3 Lawson. A braw day this, William. (Seeing Jean.) Eh Mistress Watt ? And what'll have brocht you here ? Brodie (seated on bench). Something, uncle, she lost last night, and she thinks that something she lost is here. Voila. Lawson. Why are ye no at the kirk, woman ? Do ye gang to the kirk ? Jean. I'm mebbe no what ye would just ca' reg'lar. Ye see, Fiscal, it's the wean. LAWSON. A bairn's an excuse ; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. But bairn or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa wi' ye ! Hear to the bells ; they're ringing in. (Jean curtsies to both, and goes out C. The bells, which have been ringing quicker, cease. ) SCENE IV Lawson (to Brodie, returning C. from door). Cq < Mulier formosa supernc, 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 45 DEACON BRODIE OR they tell me sae ; and I'm concerned for her [she's j V unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets me Sc. 4 brawl y 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 herseP. O, ye needna look sae gash. Did she speak ? and what'll you have said to her? BRODIE. She has not spoken ; I have said nothing ; and I believe I asked you to avoid the subject. Lawson. Ay, I made a note o' that observation, William [and assoilzied mysel']. Mary's a guid lass, and I'm her uncle, and I'm here to be answered. Is it to be ay or no ? Brodie. It's to be no. This marriage must be quashed ; and hark ye, Procurator, you must help me. Lawson. Me ? ye're daft ! And what for why ? Brodie. Because I've spent the trust-money, and I can't refund it. Lawson. Ye reprobate deevil ! Brodie. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words ! 46 Sc. 4 THE DOUBLE LIFE Lawson. Do you say it to my face, sir ? Dod, sir, II I'm the Crown Prosecutor. jy Brodie. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get your brandy ? Lawson. Eh ? Brodie. Your brandy ! Your brandy, man ! Where do you get your brandy ? And you a Crown official and an elder ! Lawson. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that ? Brodie. Rogues all ! Rogues all, Procurator ! Lawson. Ay, ay. Lord save us ! Guidsake, to think o' that noo ! . . . Can ye give me some o' that Cognac ? I'm . . . I'm sort o' shaken, William, I'm sort o' shaken. Thank you, William ! {Looking piteously at glass.) Nunc est bibcndum. (Drinks.) Troth, I'm set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye ? Brodie. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair. Lawson. Pair, indeed ! Pair, William Brodie ! Upon my saul, sir, ye're a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face ! Tak' you care, my bonnie young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o' your hurdies. Keep the plainstanes side o' the gallows. Via. trita, via tuta, William Brodie ! Brodie. And the brandy, Procurator ? and the brandy ? Lawson. Ay . . . weel . . . be't sae ! Let the brandy bide, man, let the brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money . . . dammed ! It's felony. 47 IV Sc. 4 DEACON BRODIE OR Ttttor in rem suam, ye ken, tutor in rem sitam. But O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller? Brodie. It's gone — O how the devil should I know? But it'll never come back. LAWSON. Dear, dear ! A' gone to the winds o' heaven ! Sae ye're an extravagant dog, too. Pro- digits 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 Deacon's uncle ; and a sore hearing have I had of it the day. That's past ; that's past like Flodden Field ; it's an auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But mark ye this — mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no sae guid's I should be ; but there's no a saul between the east sea and the wast can lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. I bless God, William Brodie— ay, though he was like my brother — I bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to me, sir ? Think shame — think shame upon your heart ! Brodie. Rogues all ! Lawson. You're the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint— Lord help us, and 48 Sc. 4 THE DOUBLE LIFE the honour tint ! — sae be it, I maun bow the head. 1 1 Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I'll say mair, IV William ; we have a' our weary sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye could bring half the jointure . . . \potius quam pereas] . . . for your mither's son ? Na ? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it's a sair heart 1 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. [Points quam ftercas.] SCENE V Brodie. Sore hearing, does he say ? My hand's Cp <- 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 49 Sc. 5 DEACON BRODIE OR and mine might squander, pinching that we might IY 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 tatterde- malions !] Shorn to the quick ! Rooked to my vitals ! And I must thieve for my daily bread like any crawl- ing blackguard in the gutter. And my sister . . . my kind, innocent sister ! She will come smiling to me with her poor little love-story, and I must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives ! . . . I should have died before. SCENE VI Brodie, Mary Sc. 6 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. 5o THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie. O nothing ! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well ! you've come to speak to me. Iv Speak up. What is it ? Come, girl ! What is it ? c r Can't you speak ? 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 ? I am kind. I'm only ill and worried, can't you see ? Whimpering ? I knew it ! Sit down, you goose ! Where do you women get your tears ? Mary. Why are you so cross with me ? 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 always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to me again. I know you will, for this is my great need, and the day I've missed my mother sorest. Just a nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give me courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know that you're my own brother once again. Brodie. If you'd take a hint, you'd put it off 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. 51 DEACON BRODIE OR II Brodie. And . . . ? j V Mary. You can say that to me ? And that is all c r f: you have to say ? Brodie. O no, not all. Mary. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid. Brodie. I suppose you want my consent ? Mary. Can you ask ? Brodie. I didn't know. You seem to have got on pretty well without it so far. Mary. O shame on you ! shame on you ! Brodie. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I hope so. For you'll never have it. . . . Mary! . . . I hate to see you look like that. If I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it. But I have said all ; every word is spoken ; there's the end. Mary. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation ; and I'll have it. BRODIE. Isn't my ' No ' enough, Mary ? Mary. It might be enough for me ; but it is not, and it cannot be, enough for him. He has asked me to be his wife ; he tells me his happiness is in my hands — poor hands, but they shall not fail him, if my poor heart should break ! If he has chosen and set his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I dare you to leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts — until you prove that this is good and right. 52 THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie. Good and right ? They are strange words, II Mary. I mind the time when it was good and right IV to be your father's daughter and your brother's sister. C c g . . . Now ! . . . Mary. Have I changed ? Not even in thought. My father, Walter says, shall live and die with us. He shall only have gained another son. And you — you know what he thinks of you ; you know what I would do for you. Brodie. Give him up. Mary. I have told you : not without a reason. Brodie. You must. Mary. I will not. Brodie. What if I told you that you could only compass your happiness and his at the price of my ruin ? Mary. Your ruin ? Brodie. Even so. Mary. Ruin ! Brodie. It has an ugly sound, has it not ? Mary. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done ? What have you done ? Brodie. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You must give up this Leslie . . . and at once. It is to save me. Mary. I would die for you, dear, you know that. But I cannot be false to him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him. Brodie. We shall see. Let me take you to your S3 IV Sc. 6 DEACON BRODIE OR 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 ? SCENE VII Brodie, Hunt !$C t 7 Hunt {hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I be- lieve ? Brodie. I am he, Mr. . Hunt. Hunt, sir ; an officer from Sir John Field- ing 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 54 THE DOUBLE LIFE parties ; and I needn't tell a gentleman of your expe- rience it's part of our duty to hold our tongues. TV Now], it's come to my knowledge that you are a trifle c jokieous. Of course I know there ain't any harm in " ' that. I've been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking Brodie. O, but pardon me, Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private character with you. Hunt. To be sure you ain't. [And do I blame you ? Not me.] But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great deal of bad company. Brodie. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you're driving at ; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (He sits, and motions Hunt to do likewise.) Hunt. I was dead sure of it ; and 'and upon 'art, Mr. Deacon, I thank you. Now (consulting pocket- book), did you ever meet a certain George Smith ? Brodie. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie ? (Hunt nods) Yes. Hunt. Bad character. Brodie. Let us say . . . disreputable. Hunt. Any means of livelihood ? Brodie. I really cannot pretend to guess. I have met the creature at cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. Perhaps he bets. Hunt. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that if he don't — if he ain't 55 DEACON BRODIE OR open to any mortal thing — he ain't the man I mean.] jy He used to be about with a man called Badger g c - 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 sup- pose 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 dropping a hatful of money lately. Brodie. You are very good. Hunt. Four hundred in three months, they tell me. Brodie. Ah ! Hunt. So they say, sir. Brodie. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt. Hunt. And you to do the other thing ? Well, I'm a good hand at keeping close myself. Brodie. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt ; 'tis you who are consulting me. And if there is nothing else {rising) in which I can pretend to serve you . . .? 56 Sc. 7 THE DOUBLE LIFE HUNT {rising). That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on to anything good in the way of heckle jy 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 ^mTMoore, without waiting to be answered, open and enter, C. They are well into the room before they observe Hunt.) [Talk of the Devil, sir !J Brodie. What brings you here ? (Smith and MOORE, confounded by the officer's presence, slouch together to right of door. HUNT, stopping as he goes out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically. This is sup- ported 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 ? CJc. g Brodie (with folded arms, half- sitting on bench). He was here about you. Smith (still quite discountenanced). About us? Scissors ! And what did you tell him ? 57 DEACON BRODIE OR BRODIE (same attitude). I spoke of you as I have jy found you. [I told him you were a disreputable o q hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.] I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incom- petent and dishonest boxer. Moore. Look here, Deacon ! Wot's up ? Wot I sea 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 /zall. 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 ? 58 IV Sc.8 THE DOUBLE LIFE Moore. We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's vvot's the matter with us. Brodie. Is it ? Moore. Ay, strike me, it is ! And wot we've got to do is to put up the Excise. Smith. It's the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, and it's breaking George the gardener's heart, it is. We really must ! Brodie. Must we ? Moore. Must's the thundering word. I mean business, I do. Brodie. That's lucky. I don't. Moore. O, you don't, don't you ? Brodie. I do not. Moore. Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thun- dering will do ? Brodie. What do I mean ? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I am blind ? I'm the Deacon, am I not ? I've been your king and your commander. I've led you, and fed you, and thought for you with this head. And you think to steal a march upon a man like me ? I see you through and through [I know you like the clock] ; I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you thought, has money, and won't do the job. There- fore, 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 59 DEACON BRODIE OR your Excise ? Sure ? Are you sure I'll let you pack j.- with a whole skin ? By my soul, but I've a mind to C« o pistol you like dogs. Out of this ! Out, I say, and soil my home no more. MOORE (sitting). Now look 'ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this 'ere chair of yours, don't you ? Wot I ses to you is, here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. That's my motto. Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty ? You make all you can out of us, don't you ? and when one of your plants get cross, you order us out of the ken ? Muck ! That's wot I think of you. Muck ! Don't you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I'll smash you. Brodie. You will ? MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for clearing out ? Muck ! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear out ? You try it on. I'm a man, I am. Brodie. This is plain speaking. MOORE. Plain ? Wot about your father as can't walk ? Wot about your fine-madam sister ? Wot about the stone-jug, and the clock, 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. Wot do I want of you ? Now you speak sense. Leslie's is wot I want of you. The Excise is 60 Sc. 8 THE DOUBLE LIFE wot I want of you. Leslie's to-night and the Excise to-morrow. That's wot I want of you, and wot I 1V 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. What I ses is, has he got his orders or has he not ? That's wot's the matter with him. Smith. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I'm only a light weight, and you fight at twelve stone ten, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand still and see you hitting a pal when he's down. MOORE. Muck ! That's wot I think of you. Smith. He's a cut above us, ain't he ? He never sold his backers, did he ? We couldn't have done without him, could we ? You dry up about his old man, and his sister ; and don't go on hitting a pal when he's knocked out of time and cannot hit back, for, damme, I will not stand it. MOORE. Amen to you. But I'm cock of this here thundering walk, and that cove's got his orders. Brodie (putting pistol on bench). I give in. I will do your work for you once more. Leslie's to-night and the Excise to-morrow. If that is enough, if you have no more . . . orders, you may count it as done. MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind. 61 DEACON BRODIE OR Brodie. I have passed you my word. And now jy you have said what you came to say, you must go. I c o have business here ; but two hours hence I am at your . . . orders. Where shall 1 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 fcrget. SCENE IX 5c. Q Brodie. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it either. It must be done : Leslie's to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me, and now . . . I've licked their boots, have I ? I'm their man, their tool, their chattel. It's the bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I sound with my foot, and there's nothing underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've been travelling all these years ; and it's for this that you learned French ! The gallows . . . God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. There's a step to take ! And the jerk upon your spine ! How's a man to die with a night-cap on ? I've done with this. Over yonder, across the great ocean, is a new land, with new characters, and perhaps new lives. The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it's a place where men live gladly ; and the Deacon himself can 62 St:. 9 THE DOUBLE LIFE walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born child. It must be good to see day again and not to jy fear ; it must be good to be one's self with all men. Happy like a child, wise like a man, free like God's angels . . . should I work these hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and good again. And it's only over the sea ! O man, you have been blind, and now your eyes are opened. It was half a life's nightmare, and now you are awake. Up, Deacon, up, it's hope that's at the window ! Mary ! Mary ! Mary ! SCENE X Brodie, Mary, Old Brodie (Brodie lias fallen into a chair, with his face upon gp -.q the table. Enter Mary, by the side door, pitsh- ing her father's chair. She is supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before Brodie is aware of her. He starts up, and runs to her.) Brodie. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman ! I . . . O kiss me, Mary ! give me a kiss for my good news. Mary. Good news, Will ? Is it changed ? Brodie. Changed ? Why, the world's a different colour ! It was night, and now it's broad day, and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work ; and before the week is out, as sure as God sees me, I'll have made vou happy. O 63 DEACON BRODIE you may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon's jy not the man to be run clown ; trust him, he shall turn c^ 7n a corner yet, and leave you snarling ! And you, Poll, you. I've done nothing for you yet ; but, please God, I'll make your life a life of gold ; and wherever I am, I'll have a part in your happiness, and you'll know it, by heaven ! and bless me. Mary. O Willie, look at him ; I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with us. Old Brodie. My son — Deacon — better man than I was. Brodie. O for God's sake, hear him ! Mary. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I . . . so am I. Brodie. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this thing fails ; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I swear it by our father ; I swear it by God's judgments. Mary. I want no oaths, Will. Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move mountains. Old Brodie. A wise son maketh — maketh Brodie. A glad father ? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad ? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man. Act-Drop 64 ACT III TABLEAU V King's Evid enc e The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh SCENE I jjj Jean, Smith, and Moore V Sc. i ( They loiter in L. , and stand looking about as for somebody not there. Smith is hat in hand to Jean ; Moore as usual.) MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he 'ere, or ain't he ? Now, then. Slink by name and Slink by nature, that's wot's the matter with him. JEAN. He'll no be lang ; he's regular enough, if that was a'. MOORE. I'd regular him ; I'd break his back. Smith. Badger, vou brute, you hang on to the 65 Sc DEACON BRODIE OR lessons of your dancing-master. None but the gen- y teel deserves the fair ; does they, Duchess ? Moore. O rot ! Did I insult the blowen ? Wot's the matter with me is Slink Ainslie. Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he'll turn up as fresh as clean saw- dust and as respectable as a new Bible. MOORE. That's right enough ; but I ain't agoing to stand here all day for him. I'm for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you that (showing his doubled fist). That's wot's the matter with him. (He lurches out, R.) SCENE II Smith and Jean, to -whom Hunt, and afterwards Moore Sc. 2 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 66 THE DOUBLE LIFE in the country, shouldn't us ? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry. v Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry o me ? Smith. Mean it ? What else has ever been the 'umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman ? I know the Deacon's your man, and I know he's a cut above G. S. ; but he won't last, Jean, and I shall. Jean. Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him ; wha could help it ? Smith. Well, and my sort don't grow on apple- trees either. Jean. Ye're a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be. Smith. I know I ain't a Scotchman born. Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye even for that ; if ye would just let me be. [Hunt [entering behind, aside). Are they thick? Anyhow, it's a second chance.] Smith. But he won't last, Jean ; and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry ? That's the kind of harticle that I pre- sent. HUNT {surprising them as in Tableati L). Why, you're the very parties I was looking for ! Jean. Mercy me ! Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind. Hunt. [Now this is what I call a picter of good 67 DEACON BRODIE OR fortune.] Ain't it strange I should have dropped Y across you comfortable and promiscuous like this ? c p Jean {stolidly). I hope ye're middling weel, Mr. Hunt? {Going.) Mr. Smith ! Smith. Mrs. Watt, ma'am ! {Going.) Hunt. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady's man to another, turn about's fair play. You've had your confab, and now I'm going to have mine. [Not that I've done with you ; you stand by and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first ; that's the size of it. {To Jean, aside.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain't a natural fool ? Jean. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt. SMITH {interfering). Jean . . . ! HUNT {keeping him off). Haifa tick, George. {To Jean.) Mrs. Watt, I've a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three : will you peach? Jean. Whatten kind of a word'll that be ? Smith. Mum it is, Jean ! Hunt. When you've done dancing, George ! (7<?Jean.) It ain't a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. Will you blow the gaff is perhaps more tenderer. Jean. I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin' yoursel'. Hunt (/^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, 68 THE DOUBLE LIFE not yet ; don't push me.] George's turn now. {To \\\ GEORGE.) George, I've a warrant in my pocket. y Smith. As per usual, Jerry ? C 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 clown. 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 Moore, L.) Hunt {to both). Come, then, I'll take the pair, and be damned to you. Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don't care for you commoners, it's the Deacon I want. Jean {looking off stolidly). I think the kirks are scalin'. There seems to be mair people in the streets. Hunt. O that's the way, is it ? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman, and your fancy man as well ? Jean. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt ; and here's my service to you. {Going.) 69 DEACON BRODIE OR Hunt. George, don't you be a tomfool, anyway. Y Think of the blowen here, and have brains for two. c _ Smith {going). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you would talk! {They go off to- gether, R.) SCENE III Hunt, Moore g c - 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 Sc A, Hunt (looking after then ruefully). And these were the very parties I was looking for ! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office !] Well, the market price of that 'ere two hundred is a trifle on the decline and fall. (Looking L.) Hullo ! (Slapping his thigh). Send me victorious ! It's king's evidence on two legs. (Advancing with great cordiality to meet Ainslie, who enters L.) And so your name's Andrew Ainslie, is it ? As I was saying, you're the 70 Sc. 4 THE DOUBLE LIFE very party I was looking for. Ain't it strange, now, HI that I should have dropped across your comfortable y and promiscuous like this ? AlNSLIE. 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. AlNSLIE. 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. AlNSLIE. 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 ? 7i Sc. 4 DEACON BRODIE OR HI Ainslie. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no. v HUNT. 'Aiblins ay and aiblins no.' Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I'll ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew ? With the naked eye, so to speak ? Ainslie. What's your wull? HUNT. Artful bird ! Now since we're getting on so cosy and so free, I'll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow Street Runner ? (Pro- ducing staff.) 'Cos, if so, you've only got to cast your eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew ? Pretty colour, ain't it ? So nice and warm for the winter too. (Ainslie dives, HUNT collars him.) No, you don't. Not this time. Run away like that before we've finished our little conversation ? You're a nice young man, you are. Suppose we in- troduce 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 com- panions 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, 72 THE DOUBLE LIFE you look here, Andrew Ainslie, you're a bad lot. HI I've evidence to hang you fifty times over. But the v Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or won't you ? e You blow the gaff, and I'll pull you through. You don't, and I'll scragg you as sure as my name's Jerry Hunt. Ainslie. I'll dae onything. It's the hanging fleys me. I'll dae onything, onything no to hang. Hunt. Don't lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a man. Ain't this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that's been doing all these tip-topping burglaries ? Ainslie. It's him, mister ; it's him. That's the man. Ye're in the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I'll can tak' ye to his vera door. Hunt. How do you know? Ainslie. I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'. It was him an' Badger Moore, and Geordie Smith ; an' they gart me gang wi' them whether or no ; I'm that weak, an' whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. But I ken a', an' I'll tell a'. And O kind gentleman, you'll speak to their lordships for me, an' I'll no be hangit . . . I'll no be hangit, wull I ? Hunt. But you shared, didn't you? I wonder what share they thought you worth. How much did you get for last night's performance down at Mother Clarke's ? Ainslie. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure's deith it wadna be a penny mair. No but I 73 Sc. 4 DEACON BRODIE OR askit mair : I did that ; I'll no deny it, mister. But Y Badger kickit me, an' Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an' made he'd cut the liver out o' me, an' catch fish wi't. It's been that way frae the first : an aith an' a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra. Hunt. Well, and why did they do it ? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the table, and booze the company all round, when the Deacon was gone. What made you cross the fight, and play booty with your own man ? Ainslie. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They're wicked, wicked men. Hunt. And is he right for it ? Ainslie. Ay is he. Hunt. By jingo! When'sitfor? AlNSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken : the Deacon's that sair angered wi' me. I'm to get my orders frae Geordie the nicht. Hunt. O, you're to get your orders from Geordie, are you ? Now look here, Ainslie. You know me. I'm Hunt the Runner ; I put Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning ; I've got you this evening. I mean to wind up with the Deacon. You understand ? All right. Then just you listen. I'm going to take these here bracelets off, and send you home to that cele- brated 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 ? 74 Sc. 4 THE DOUBLE LIFE AlNSLlE. Never you fear that. I'll tak' my bannet HI an' come straucht to ye. Eh God, I'm glad it's nae v 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. AlNSLIE (going out). An' so I wull, wulln't I not? An' bless, bless ye while there's breath in my body, wulln't I not ? Hunt (solus). You're a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers and the Deacon in two days ! By jingo ! (He dances an instant gravely, whistling to himself.) Jerry, that 'ere little two hundred of ours is as safe as the bank. TABLEAU VI Unmasked The Stage represents a room in Leslie's house. A practicable window, C., through which a band of strong moonlight falls into the room. Near the window a strong-box. A practicable door in wing, L. Candlelight. SCENE I VI Leslie, Lawson, Mary, seated. Brodie at back, Sc. I 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. 75 Sc. i DEACON BRODIE OR HI Lawson. I have nothing to say against that. VI Brodie {behind Lawson). Nor for it. Lawson. For it ? for it, William ? Ye're perfectly richt there. (To Leslie.) Just you do what William tells you ; ye canna do better than that. Mary. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed ; but Will and I are perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. Oh, we can wait ; we can trust each other. Brodie (from behind'). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this strong-box in your room ? Leslie. It does not trouble me. Brodie. I would not. 'Tis close to the window. Leslie. It's on the right side of it. Brodie. I give you my advice : I would not. Lawson. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie. Brodie. I give him fair warning : it's not safe. Leslie. I have a different treasure to concern my- self about ; if all goes right with that I shall be well contented. Mary. Walter ! Lawson. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age. Leslie. Surely, sir, for every age ; the ties of blood, of love, of friendship, these are life's essence. Mary. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to be a thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, full of trust. Lawson. Ah, lassie, it's a wicked world. Mary. Yes,you are out of sorts to-day; we know that. 76 Sc. i THE DOUBLE LIFE Leslie. Admitted that you know more of life, sir ; admitted (if you please) that the world is wicked ; yet yj you do not lose trust in those you love. LAWSON. Weel ... ye get gliffs, ye ken. Leslie. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time ; but not, I think, in our friends. We are not deceived in them ; in the few that we admit into our hearts. Mary. Never in these. Leslie. We know these (to Brodie), and we think the world of them. Brodie (at back). We are more acquainted with each other's tailors, believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson is the Procurator-Fiscal. I — What am I ? — I am the Deacon of the Wrights, my ruffles are generally clean. And you think the world of me ? Bravo ! Leslie. Ay, and I think the world of you. Brodie (at back, pointing to Lawson). Ask him. Lawson. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense : an honest man's an honest man, and a randy thief's a randy thief, and "neither mair nor less. Mary, my lamb, it's time you were name, and had your beauty sleep. Mary. Do you not come with us ? Lawson. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (Leslie helps Mary on with her cloak, and they say farewell at back. BRODIE, for the first time, comes front with Lawson.) Sae ye've consented ? 77 Sc. i DEACON BRODIE OR HI BRODIE. As you see. VI Lawson. Ye'll can pay it back ? Bkodie. I will. Lawson. And how ? That's what I'm wonderin' to myseP. BRODIE. Ay, God knows that. Mary. Come, Will. SCENE II Leslie, Lawson {wrapping up) g c 2 LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie. Lawson. How should I ken ? What should I ken that ails him ? Leslie. He seemed angry even with you. Lawson {impatient). Hoot awa'. Leslie. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when our engagement is announced, even the best of men may be susceptible. You yourself seem not quite pleased. Lawson {with great irritation). I'm perfectly pleased. I'm perfectly delighted. If I werena an auld man, I'd be just beside myseP 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 78 THE DOUBLE LIFE wi' fancies? Or William Brodie either? I'll say HI that for him. yj Leslie. 'Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion ; q I've something else on hand. Come, I'll tell you, under seal. I've not been in bed till daylight for a week. Lawson. Weel, there's nae sense in the like o' that. Leslie. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procura- tor, this is town's business ; this is a municipal affair ; I'm a public character. Why ? Ah, here's a nut for the Crown Prosecutor ! I'm a bit of a party to a robbery. Lawson. Guid guide us, man, what d'ye mean ? Leslie. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I was passing through this very room without a candle on my way to bed, when . . . what should I see, but a masked man fumbling at that window ! How he did the Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the first he'd tried ... for he opened it as handily as his own front door. Lawson. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies! Leslie. That's it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. You never saw a thing so daring and adroit. Lawson. Is that a'? Ye're a bauld lad, I'll say that for ye. I'm glad it wasna waur. Leslie. Yes, that's all plain sailing. But here's 79 VI Sc. 2 DEACON BRODIE OR HI the hitch. Why didn't I tell the Procurator-Fiscal ? You never thought of that. LAWSON. No, man. Why ? Leslie. Aha! There's the riddle. Will you guess ? No ? . . . I thought I knew the man. Lawson. What d'ye say ? Leslie. I thought I knew him. Lawson. Wha was't ? Leslie. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell. Lawson. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth ? Leslie. Well ... of course ! Lawson. The haill truth ? Leslie. All of it. Why not ? Lawson. Man, I'd a kind o' gliff. Leslie. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a suspicion ? Lawson. Me ? Me a suspicion ? Ye're daft, sir ; and me the Crown Offeecial ! ... Eh man, I'm a' shakin' . . . And sae ye thocht ye kennt him ? Leslie. I did that. And what's more, I've sat every night in case of his return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip me twice. Meanwhile I'm worried and put out. You understand how such a fancy will upset a man. I'm uneasy with my friends and on bad terms with my own conscience. I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two together, hunting for resemblances until my head 80 G Sc. 2 THE DOUBLE LIFE goes round. It's like a puzzle in a dream. Only HI yesterday I thought I had him. And who d'you yj think it was ? Lawson. Wha? Whawas't? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I'm an auld man ; dinna forget that. Leslie. I name no names. It would be unjust to him ; and, upon my word, it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here I sit, night after night. I mean him to come back ; come back he shall ; and I'll tell you who he was next morning. Lawson. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie ; ye dinna ken what ye micht see. And then, leave him alane, he'll come nae mair. And sitting up a' nicht . . . it's ^.factum imprestabile, as we say : a thing impossible to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie, and sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to ye! {Without.) Let sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed. SCENE III Leslie LESLIE [calling). In good time, never fear ! {He g c -, carefully bolts and chains the door.) The old gentle- man seems upset. What for, I wonder ? Has he , had a masked visitor ? Why not ? It's the fashion. Out with the lights. {Blows out the candles. The stage is only lighted by the moon through the window.) He is sure to come, one night or other. He must 81 DEACON 13RODIE OR come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but Yj I know you, 1 know you somewhere. That trick of c ,, the shoulders, the hang of the clothes — whose are " ^ they ? Where have I seen them ? And then, that single look of the eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened ... it is almost friendly ; I have caught it over the glass's rim ! If it should be . . . his ? No, his it is not. Watchman {without). Past ten o'clock, and a fine moonlight night. Another [further away). Past ten o'clock, and all's well. Leslie. Past ten ? Ah, there's a long night before you and me, watchmen. Heavens, what a trade ! But it will be something to laugh over with Mary and . . . with him ? Damn it, the delusion is too strong for me. It's a thing to be ashamed of. ' We Brodies ' : how she says it! ' We Brodies and our Deacon' : what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me ! ' Deacon of his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .' (Brodie, masked, appears without at the window, which he proceeds to force.) Ha! I knew he'd come. I was sure of it. [He crouches near and nearer to the window, keeping in the shade.) And I know you too. I swear I know you. 82 THE DOUBLE LIFE III SCENE IV VI Brodie, Leslie Sc. 4 Brodie enters by the window with assurance and ease, closes it silently, and proceeds to traverse the room. As he moves, Leslie leaps tipon and grapples him. Leslie. Take off that mask ! Brodie. Hands off! Leslie. Take off the mask ! Brodie. Leave go, by God, leave go ! Leslie. Take it off ! Brodie {overpowered). Leslie .... Leslie. Ah ! you know me ! {Succeeds in tearing off the mash.) 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 sec- ond 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 ! ' 83 DEACON BRODIE OR Brodie. Leslie LESLIE. Stand off! Don't touch me! You're a thief! VI Sc. 4 Brodie. Leslie, Leslie Leslie. A thief's sister ! Why are you here ? why are you here ? Tell me ! Why do you not speak ? Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have nothing to say ? Brodie. To say ? Not much — God help me — and commonplace, commonplace like sin. I was honest once ; I made a false step ; I couldn't retrace it ; and . . . that is all. Leslie. You have forgot the bad companions ! Brodie. I did forget them. They were there. Leslie. Commonplace ! Commonplace ! Do you speak to me, do you reason with me, do you make excuses ? You — a man found out, shamed, a liar, a thief— a man that's killed me, killed this heart in my body ; and you speak ! What am I to do ? I hold your life in my hand ; have you thought of that ? What am I to do ? Brodie. Do what you please ; you have me trapped. (Jean Watt is heard singing without two bars of ' Wander in' 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 84 THE DOUBLE LIFE Leslie. Danger to you ? Ill Brodie. Some one is coming. What are you yj going to do with me ? (A knock at the door.) c . Leslie {after a pause). Sit down. {Knocking.) Brodie. What are you going to do with me ? Leslie. Sit down. (Brodie sits in darkest part of stage. Leslie opens door, and admits Lawson. Door open till end of Act.) SCENE V Brodie, Lawson, Leslie Lawson. This is an unco' time to come to your c_ _ door; but eh, laddie, I couldna bear to think o' ye sittin' your lane in the dark. Leslie. It was very good of you. Lawson. I'm no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel' ; and noo that I'm here Leslie. I will give you a light. (He lights the candles. Lights tip.) 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. 35 DEACON BRODIE OR II {Passing to Leslie, aside.) Walter Leslie, God will ,-j reward. (Jean signals again.) o Lawson. I dinna like that singin' at siccan a time 3 o' the nicht. Brodie. I must go. Lawson. Not one foot o 1 ye. I'm owcr glad to find ye in guid hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad. Brodie {aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. There's a man there will stick at nothing. Leslie. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we keep him? (Jean appears at the door, and signs to Brodie.) Lawson. Hoots ! this is my trade. That's a bit o' ' Wanderin' Willie.' I've had it before me in precognitions ; that same stave has been used for a signal by some o' the very warst o' them. Brodie {aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. I'll never forget to-night. (Jean at door again.) Leslie. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again ? Lawson. Not one foot o' him. (Jean at door.) I tell you, Mr. Leslie SCENE VI To these, Jean c r f. Jean {from the door). Wullie, Wullie ! Lawson. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt ! A dacent 86 VI Sc. 6 THE DOUBLE LIFE wumman like yoursel' ! Whatten a time o' nicht is this to come to folks' doors ? Jean (to Brodie). Hawks, Wullie, hawks ! Brodie. I suppose you know what you've done, Jean ? Jean. I had to come, Wullie, he vvadna 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 war- rant ? Lawson (breaking down). Your father's son ! Leslie (to Lawson). My good friend ! Brodie, you might have spared the old man this. BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago ; and you and my sister, and myself. I might . . . would God I had! (Weeping himself.) Don't weep, my good old friend ; I was lost long since ; don't think of me ; don't pity me ; don't shame me with your pity ! I began this when I was a boy. I bound the millstone round my ,.<neck ; [it is irrevocable now,] and you must all suffer ... all suffer for me ! . . . [for this suffering remnant of what was once a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do 37 DEACON BRODIE OR now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows ; yj my second father weeping tears of blood for my c c c. disgrace ! And all for what ? By what ? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because I loved this woman. Jean. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel ! But come near me nae mair, come near me nae mair, my man ; keep wi' your ain folks . . . your ain dacent folks. Lawson. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang's there's breath in William Lawson's body. Leslie. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary's sake. You can save yourself; you must fly. Brodie. It is my purpose ; the day after to- morrow. It cannot be before. Then I will fly ; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to make a new and a better life, and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your tears . . . your tears. And to be worthy of you too, Jean ; for I see now that the bandage has fallen from my eyes ; I see myself, O how unworthy even of you. Leslie. Why not to-night ? Brodie. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I must find money. Jean. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yourseP 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 ! 88 VI Sc. 6 THE DOUBLE LIFE LAWSON. Tak' it, William; I'll pay him. HI Brodie. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There is a man ; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done with me, the hue and cry will blaze about the country ; every outport will be shut ; I shall return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at nothing. SCENE VII To these, MOORE MOORE. Are you coming ? c p ^ 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 89 ACT IV TABLEAU VII The Robbery 'The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in ChessePs Court. At the back, L.C., an arclnvay opening on the High Street. The door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite side of the stage is lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc. Moonlight ; the Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour. A round of the City Guard, with halberts, lanterns, etc., enters and goes out again by the arch, after having examined the fastenings of the great door and the lumber on the left. Cry without in the High Street : ' Ten by the bell, and a fine clear night.' Then enter cautiously by the arch, Smith and Moore, with Ainslie loaded with tools. SCENE I yjj Smith, Moore, Ainslie Sc. I Smith {entering first). Come on. Coast clear. MOORE [after they have come to the front). Ain't he turned up yet ? Smith (to Ainslie). Now Maggot ! The fishing's a going to begin. Ainslie. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My backs fair broke. 90 IV Sc. DEACON BRODIE MOORE. O muck ! Hand out them pieces. IV Smith. All right, Humptious ! {To Ainslie.) vii You're a nice old sort for a rag-and-bone man : can't hold a bag open! {Taking out tools.) Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one and two ; and jolly old keys was they. Here's the picklocks, crow- bars, and here's Lord George's pet bull's eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman's treasure ! Moore. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit. Smith. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her ! Portrait of George as a gay hironmonger. Moore. O rot ! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there thundering moonlight. Smith {lighting lantern). All right, old mumble- peg. Don't you get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That's your motto. Here are the tools ; a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful ; and all I hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If he don't, I shall retire from the business — that's all ; and it'll be George and his little wife and a black footman till death do us part. Moore. O muck ! You're all jaw like a sheep's jimmy. That's my opinion of you. When did you see him last ? Smith. This morning ; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for to-night ; and was he grateful ? Did he weep upon my faithful 9i DEACON BRODIE OR IV bosom ? No ; he smiled upon me like a portrait of Yjt the dear departed. I see his 'art was far away ; and c r r it broke my own to look at him. MOORE. Muck ! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob about him, wot's the good of his working single-handed ? That's wot's the matter with him. Smith. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single handed to-night, is he ? Moore. No, he ain't ; he's got a man with him to-night. Smith. Pardon me, Romeo ; two men, I think ? Moore. A man wot means business. If I'd a'bin with him last night, it ain't psalm-singin' would have got us off. Psalm-singin' ? Muck ! Let 'em try it on with me. Ainslie. Losh me, I heard a noise. [Alarm ; they cro7ich into the shadow and listen!) SMITH. All serene. (To Ainslie.) Am I to cut that liver out of you ? Now, am I ? (A whistle.) 'St! here we are. (Whistles a modulation, which is answered.) SCENE II To these BRODIE Sc. 2 MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon. Brodie. I see. Everything ready ? Smith. All a-growing and a-blowing. 92 THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie. Givr me the light. {Briefly examines IV tools and door with bull's eye.) You, George, stand yjj by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie, take the glim. q r Moore, out and watch. Moore. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I didn't. Brodie. You came here to do as I tell you. (Moore goes up slowly.) Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (At work.) No good. Give me the centrebit. Smith. Right. (Work continues. Ainslie drops la liter n.) Brodie. Curse you ! (Throttling and hiding him.) You shake, and you shake, and you can't even hold a light for your betters. Hey ? Ainslie. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . SMITH. N o w G h o s t ! ( With la n tern . ) Brodie. 'St, Moore ! Moore. Wot's the row ? Brodie. Take you the light. Moore (A? Ainslie). Wo'j' yershakin'at? (Kicks him.) Brodie (to Ainslie). Go you, and see if you're good at keeping watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I'll break your back. (Ainslie retires) Steady with the light. (At work with centrebit.) Hand up number four, George. (At work with picklock.) That has it. SMITH. Well clone, our side. 93 DEACON BRODIE OR V Sc IV Brodie. Now the crowbar! {At work.) That's VII 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.) Voila ! In with you. MOORE [entering with light). Mucking fine work too, Deacon ! Brodie. Take up the irons, George ! Smith. How about the P(h)antom ? Brodie. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. {Enters office.) Smith {following). Houp-la ! SCENE III AlNSLIE ; afterwards Brodie ; afterwards HUNT and Officers Sc. 3 AlNSLIE. 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 re- peated.) Losh me, what gars him whustle, whustle ? Does he think me deaf? {Goes up. Brodie enters from office, stands an instant, and sees him making a signal through the arch.) Brodie. Rats ! Rats ! {Hides L. among lumber. Enter noiselessly through arch Hunt ««^Officers.) 94 Sc.3 THE DOUBLE LIFE Hunt. Birds caught ? IV Ainslie. They're a' ben the house, mister. VII Hunt. All three ? Ainslie. The hale set, mister. Brodie. Liar ! Hunt. Mum, lads, and follow me. {Exit, with his men, into office. Brodie seen with dagger.) Hunt. In the King's name ! ) Moore. Muck! ( , withi)u) Smith. Go it, Badger. [ Hunt. Take 'em alive, boys ! ) Ainslie. Eh, but that's awfu'. (The Deacon leaps out and stabs him. He falls without a cry.) Brodie. Saved! (He goes out by the arch.) SCENE IV Hunt and Officers ; with Smith and Moore handcuffed. Signs of a severe struggle Hunt (entering). Bring 'em along, lads! (Looking Cp . 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 ? 95 Sc. 4 DEACON BRODIE IV Smith. You ought to know G. S. better by this yjj time, Jerry. Hunt. All right, your Grace : we'll talk it over with the Deacon himself. Where's the jackal ? Here, you, Ainslic ! Where are you? By jingo, I thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring ! Smith. Bravo ! Hunt. More of the Deacon's work, I guess ? Does him credit too, don't it, Badger ? MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached ? HUNT. That was the thundering cove. Moore. And is he corpsed ? Hunt. I should just about reckon he was. Moore. Then, damme, I don't mind swinging ! HUNT. We'll talk about that presently. M'Intyre and Stewart, you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up ; it's only a dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compli- ments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I'll bring the Deacon round myself. Act-Drop 96 ACT V TABLEAU VIII The Open Door The Stage represents the Deacon's room, as in Tableau I. Fire- light. Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. Cries without of ' Willie ! ' ' Mr. Brodie ! ' The door is burst open SCENE I y Doctor, Mary, a Maidservant with lights vill Doctor. The apartment is unoccupied. Sc. I Mary. Dead, and he not here ! Doctor. The bed has not been slept in. The counterpane is not turned down. Mary. It is not true ; it cannot be true. DOCTOR. My dear young lady, you must have misunderstood your brother's language. Mary. O no ; that I did not. That I am sure I did not. DOCTOR {looking at door). The strange thing is .... the bolt. Servant. It's unco strange. 97 Sc. i DEACON BRODIE OR V Doctor. Well, we have acted for the best. VII j Servant. Sir, 1 dinna think this should gang nae further. Doctor. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction is enough without scandal. Mary. Kind heaven, what does it mean ? DOCTOR. 1 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 oid 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 Sc. 2 Jean (at door). Mistress . . . . ! Mary. Ah ! Who is there ? Who are you ? Jean. Is he no hame yet ? I'm aye waitin' on him. Mary. Waiting for him ? Do you know the Deacon ? You ? Jean. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it's life and death. Mary. Death . . . O my heart ! Jean. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I'm a puir body, and no fit to be seen speakin' wi' the likes o' you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon's sister, and ye 98 Sc. 2 THE DOUBLE LIFE hae the Deacon's e'en, and for the love of the dear V kind Lord, let's in and hae a word \vi' him ere it be vill 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 ? J EAN. I'll be the best frien' 'at ever he had ; for, dear leddie, I wad gie my bluid to help him. Mary. And the .... the child ? Jean. The bairn ? Mary. Nothing ! O nothing ! I am in trouble, and I know not what I say. And I cannot help you ; I cannot help you if I would. He is not here ; and I believed he was ; and ill . . . ill ; and he is not — he is .... O, I think I shall lose my mind ! Jean. Ay, it's unco business. Mary. His father is dead within there . . . dead, 1 tell you . . . dead ! Jean. It's mebbe just as week 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. (7<7 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. 99 DEACON BR O DIE OR V VIII SCENE III ^ c ' 3 Mary, Leslie MARY. O Walter, Walter ! What does it mean ? Leslie. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary ; you must lean on me . . . you must trust in me . . . and be a brave girl till the end. Mary. Who is she ? What does she want with him ? And he . . . where is he ? Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon not here ? Where has he gone ? He maybe 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. 0,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 i .... My God ! Leslie. My wife, my wife ! ioo Sc. THE DOUBLE LIFE Mary. No, no ! Keep away from me. Don't V touch me. I'm not fit . . . not fit to be near you. vill What has he done ? I am his sister. Tell me the worst. Tell me the worst at once. Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you better ; think that your true husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone. Mary. My husband ? . . . Never. Leslie. Mary . . . ! Mary. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a lifetime of happiness and love ; I owe him even you. And whatever his fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother — my own brother — and my place is still with him. Leslie. Your place is with me — is with your husband. With me, with me ; and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone ? how can you help him alone ? It wrings my heart to think how little. But together is different. Together. . . . ! Join my strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together we may save him. Mary. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was my father's daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . . ! My father is dead, my brother is shamed ; and you . . . . O how could I face the world, how could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to your honour? IOI DEACON BRODIE OR V Leslie. What is my honour but your happiness ? Yjjj In what else does it consist? Is it in denying me c *, my heart ? is it in visiting another's sin upon the " ° innocent ? Could I do that, and be my mother's son ? Could I do that, and bear my father's name ? Could I do that, and have ever been found worthy of you ? MARY. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you make it so hard for me ? So hard, Walter, so hard ! Leslie. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, the credit of your friends, your family's good name ? That were not love, and I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother, husband ... I must be all these to you. I am a man who can love well. Mary. Silence ... in pity ! I cannot . . . O, I cannot bear it. Leslie. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my neck and lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last limits of ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me ? whose pity would shine upon me in the dock ? whose prayers would accompany me to the gallows ? Whose but yours ? Yours ! . . . And you would entreat me — me ! — to do what you shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you attempted in deed ! Mary. Walter ... on my knees . . no more ! 1 02 THE DOUBLE LIFE Leslie. My wife ! my wife ! Here on my heart ! V It is I that must kneel ... I that must kneel to you. y\h Mary. Dearest ! . . . Husband ! You forgive him ? O, you forgive him ? Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come. Sc. 3 SCENE IV After a pause, Brodie, through the window Brodie. Saved ! And the alibi ! Man, but Sc. 4 you've been near it this time — near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven ! Saved ! The dog that sold me, I settled him ; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand ! Is the window fast ? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. Ay, the good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. [He lights the candles.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after all ? {He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the dock ? If it does ! You've a tongue, and you've a head, and you've an alibi ; and your alibi will stand. {He takes off his coat, takes out the Sc. 4 DEACON BRODIE OR V dagger, and with a gesture of striking) Home ! He YIII fell without a sob. ' He breaketh them against the bosses of his buckler ! ' [Lays the dagger on the table.) Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that's your life ! . . . your alibi, your alibi. {He takes up a candle and turns towards the door.) O ! . . . . Open, open, open ! Judgment of God, the door is open ! SCENE V Brodie, Mary Sc. 5 Brodie. Did you open the door ? Mary. I did. BRODIE. You .... you opened the door ? Mary. I did open it. Brodie. Were you . . . alone ? Mary. I was not. The servant was with me ; and the doctor. Brodie. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very true. Then it's all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor ? What doctor ? Why the doctor ? Mary. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been ? Brodie. Your father is dead. O yes ! He's dead, is he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right. . . . How did you open the door? It's strange. I bolted it. Mary. We could not help it, Will, now could v/e? The doctor forced it. He had to, had he not ? 104 Sc. 5 THE DOUBLE LIFE BRODIE. The doctor forced it ? The doctor ? Was V he here? He forced it ? He ? yjjj 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 105 Sc. 5 DEACON RRODIE OR V kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! VIII ^ 0L1 w ^ ^ e 9|uite a l° ne ; a ll your old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The night {with a gesture) .... it waits for me. You will be quite alone. Mary. The night ! Brodie. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old man just dead ! Mary, I was the boy you knew ; I loved pleasure, I was weak ; I have fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. A beginning is so small a thing ! I never dreamed it would come to this .... this hideous last night. Mary. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth . . . the kind truth ... at once . . .in pity. Brodie. Crime. I have fallen. Crime. Mary. Crime ? Brodie. Don't shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound that has dragged you to this misery . . . you and all that loved him . . . think only of my torments, think only of my penitence, don't shrink from me. Mary. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind ; you are my brother. What do I care ? How can I help you ? Brodie. Help ? help me ? You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend ! Was I ever unkind to you till yesterday ? Not openly unkind ? you'll say that when I am gone. 1 06 THE DOUBLE LIFE Mary. If you have done wrong, what do I care ? V If you have failed, does it change my twenty years of vill love and worship ? Never ! c Brodie. Yet I must make her understand . . . . ! Mary. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave you, I will never blame you. Come ! (Goes to embrace.) Brodie {recoiling). No, don't touch me, not a finger, not that, anything but that! Mary. Willie, Willie ! Brodie (taking the bloody dagger from the table). See, do you understand that ? Mary. Ah ! What, what is it ! Brodie. Blood. I have killed a man. Mary. You ? . . . . Brodie. I am a murderer ; I was a thief before. Your brother . . . the old man's only son ! Mary. Walter, Walter, come to me ! Brodie. Now you see that I must die ; now you see that I stand upon the grave's edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone. Father, brother, they are gone from you ; one to heaven, one . . . . ! Mary. Hush, dear, hush ! Kneel, pray ; it is not too late to repent. Think of our father, dear ; repent. (She weeps, straining to his bosom.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us. 107 V VIII Sc.6 DEACON BRODIE OR SCENE VI To these, Lawson, Leslie, Jean Lawson. She kens a', thank the guid Lord ! Brodie (to Mary). I know you forgive me now ; I ask no more. That is a good man. (To Leslie.) Will you take her from my hands ? (Leslie takes Mary J Jean, are ye here to see the end ? Jean. Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it was me ? Brodie. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes ! Hopes ! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must try to forgive me . . . you, too ! Leslie. You are her brother. Brodie (to Lawson). And you ? Lawson. My name-child and my sister's bairn ! Brodie. You won't forget Jean, will you ? nor the child ? Lawson. That I will not. Mary. O Willie, nor I. SCENE VII To these, Hunt £J C h. Hunt. The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you to come along with me. 1 08 Curtain. Sc. 7 THE DOUBLE LIFE Brodie (behi', d the table). One moment, officer : V I have a word to say before witnesses ere I go. In vill 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.) 109 BEAU AUSTIN DEDICATED WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT TO GEORGE MEREDITH Bournemouth : lit October 1884 PERSONS REPRESENTED George Frederick Austin, called ' Beau Austin,' . . Mtat. 50 John FenwiCK, of Allonby Shaw ,,26 Anthony Musgrave, Cornet in the Prince's Own, . . ,, 21 Menteitii, 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. HAY MARKET THEATRE Monday, November $d, 1890 CAST George Frederick Austin, John Fenwick, Anthony Musgrave, Menteith, A Royal Duke, Dorothy Musgrave, Miss Evelina Foster, Barbara Ridley, . Mr. Tree. Mr. Fred. Terry. Mr. Edmund Maurice. Mr. Brookfield. Mr. Robb Harwood. Mrs. Tree. Miss Rose Leclercq. Miss Aylward. Visitors to the Wells. PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. Tree in the character of Beau Austin 1 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 (ire. 115 PROLOGUE They too could risk, they also could rebel, They could love wisely — they could love too well. In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife Which is the very central fact of life, They could — and did — engage it breath for breath, They could — and did — get wounded unto death. As at all times since time for us began Woman was truly woman, man was man, And joy and sorrow were as much at home In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome. Dead — dead and done with ! Swift from shine to shade The roaring generations flit and fade. To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest, We come to proffer — be it worst or best — A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time ; A hint of what it might have held sublime ; A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, Of man still Man, and woman — Woman still ! 116 BEAU AUSTIN Musical Induction : ' Lascia ch'iopianga ' (Rinaldo). Handel. ACT I The Stage represents Miss Foster's apartments at the Wells. Doors, L. and C. ; a window, L. C, looking on the street ; a table, R.. laid for breakfast. SCENE I Barbara ; to her Miss Foster t Barbara {out of window). Mr. Menteith ! Mr. C c t Menleith ! Mr. Menteith !— Drat his old head ! Will nothing make him hear ? — Mr. Menteith ! MlSS Foster (entering). Barbara ! this is in- credible : 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 117 BEAU AUSTIN Dorothy and yourself than for me ; and if it was a <^ c r little countrified, I had a good excuse. Miss Foster. Nonsense, child ! At least, who was it ? Barbara. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you think ? I was looking out of window at the barber's opposite ■ Miss Foster. Of which I entirely disapprove Barbara. And first there came out two of the most beautiful the Royal livery, madam ! MISS Foster. Of course, of course : the Duke of York arrived last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke's footmen ? Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come out — but you'll never guess ! Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try. Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself ! MlSS Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him. Barbara. O madam, not the Beau's own gentle- man ? MlSS Foster. Mr. Austin's servant. No ? Is it possible ? By that, George Austin must be here. BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam ; they're never far apart. He came out feeling his chin, madam, so ; and a packet of letters under his arm, so ; and he had the Beau's own walk to that degree you couldn't tell his back from his master's. MlSS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently 118 BEAU AUSTIN forget yourself. A young woman in your position I must beware of levity. Sc. I Barbara. Madam, I know it ; but la, what are you to make of me ? Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking— she that trained up everybody — and see what's come of it : Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am ; and I don't do with fashionable ways— I can't do with them ; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart ! MiSS Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child ? Well, now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come ? Barbara. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean out of my head. {With letters.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected, does she not ? Six months ago, it was a different story. MiSS Foster. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it. I must take her seriously to 119 BEAU AUSTIN task. No young lady in her position should neglect S c# j 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 missine such a chance. Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young. Barbara. La, madam, he can't help that. Miss Foster. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old ; and ever since he has been only as it were his sister's son. Dorothy did everything for him : more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved — yes, slaved! — for him : teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, and learning that she might be able ; and see what he is now : a gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one : not what I had hoped of Dorothy's brother ; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two families — Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. [Opening another letter.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married ! Barbara. La, madam, how nice ! Miss Foster. They are : As I'm a sinful woman. 1 20 BEAU AUSTIN And when will you be married, Barbara? and when I dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids a-making. g c j Barbara. La, Miss Evelina, there's no harm in an old maid. Miss Foster. You speak like a fool, child : sour grapes are all very well but it's a woman's business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too ! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk ; and all these to go positively a-begging ! The men seem stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear girl's image !) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in O, I cannot fathom it : it must be the girl's own fault. Barbara. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin. Miss Foster. With Mr. Austin ? why, how very rustic ! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society : an ornament : a person- age : a private gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry ? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that the very great- ness of his success condemns him to remain un- married. 121 BEAU AUSTIN Barbara. Sure, madam, that must be tiresomefor Sc. i him - Miss Foster. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him: I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for worlds ; but it was soon after his famous rencounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature ! Barbara. Well, madam, I believe that : he is the most beautiful gentleman still. SCENE II To these, Dorothy, L Sc. 2 DOROTHY [entering). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me ? (She goes eagerly to table, and looks at letters.) Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara. Dorothy {with letter tmopened). Nothing. Miss Foster. And what do you call that, my dear? (Sitting.) Is John Fenwick nobody ? Dorothy (looking at letter). From John ? O yes, so it is. (Lays down letter unopened, and sits to breakfast, Barbara waiting.) 122 BEAU AUSTIN Miss Foster (to Barbara, with plate). Thanks, child ; now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I g c 2 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 posi- tion 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 fldtt', if you please !) I beg you not to be a prude. All women, of course, are virtuous ; but a prude is something I regard with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted. You brought him up surprisingly well ; I have always admired you for it ; but let us admit — as women of the world, my dear — it was no upbringing for a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that was positively no better than the Middle Ages ; and between the two of you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature !) was so packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare 123 BEAU AUSTIN I he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two c c « burdens. It was high time for him to be done with your apron-string, my dear : he has all his wild oats to sow ; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By the bye, have you heard the news ? The Duke of York has done us a service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara !) George Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more. DOROTHY. I knew he was coming. Miss Foster. You knew, child ? and did not tell ? You are a public criminal. DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina. Miss Foster. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin's vanishing. No, my dear, our family require entertainment : we must have wit about us, and beauty, and the bcl 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. 124 BEAU AUSTIN Dorothy. I remember. I Miss Foster. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . g c 2 Foster in the blood : the family gout, dears ! . . . And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole dav to vourself, and not a word to tell me when vou returned. Dorothy. I remember. {Rising.) Is that the necklace, Barbara ? It does not suit you. Give it me. BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world. Dorothy. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you : you shall have my birthday pearls instead. MiSS Foster. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid. Foster, Foster : always a Fester trick to wear the willow in anger. DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit. Miss Foster. O, the personage is your excuse ! And I can tell you, child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the Duchess's Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy. It was the ton, you see : not to pine for that Sylvander was to resign from good society. DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop ; I cannot endure to hear you. What is he after all but just Beau Austin ? What has he done — with half a century of good health, what has he done that is either memorable or worthy ? Diced and danced and set fashions ; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for i-5 BEAU AUSTIN a word ; what else ? As if these were the meaning Sc 2 °^ ^ c ' ^° not ma ^ e 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. MlSS Foster. You will give me leave, my niece : such talk is neither becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave ; and you will do much better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your letter, which 1 perceive you have not opened. (Dorothy opens and reads letter.) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table. Barbara. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place. Miss Foster. Then do not do it again. DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick ! he coming here! MlSS 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. 126 BEAU AUSTIN SCENE III I Dorothy ^ c - 3 DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt ; and I — I could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know nothing — there's where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the truth, what were left me but death ? — He, too — she must still be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I could die of my secret : if I could cease — but one moment cease — this living lie ; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest ! — Poor John ! {Reading the letter) he at least is guiltless ; and yet for my fault he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John Fenwick ! Has he come back with the old story : with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside ? Eden ? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old north country, my old river — the river of my innocence, the old country of my hopes — how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet John ? — John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride 127 BEAU AUSTIN 1 with him, her heart as light as his, her life as deal- er ~ as the bright rivers we forded ; he called her his * Diana, he crowned her so with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now ? that Diana ? she that was every- thing to John ? For O, I did him good : I know 1 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, 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 out- stretched). 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? 128 Sc. 4 BEAU AUSTIN DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket — I broken. But the old Dorothy is dead. g c . Fenwick. Dead, dear ? Not to me. Dorothy. Dead to you — dead to all men. FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best and brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen ; I walked with you, I talked with you, I rode with you ; I lived in your shadow ; I saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy you bore with ; you will never know with what romance you filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At night I lay awake and worshipped you ; in my dreams I saw you, and you loved me ; and you remember, when we told each other stories — you have not forgotten, dearest — ■ that Princess Hawthorn that was still the heroine of mine : who was she ? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was you ! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen. Dorothy. O silence, silence— pity ! FENWICK. No, dear ; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I have begun ; 1 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 I2g BEAU AUSTIN I and serve you. Why else have I come here, the Sc. 4 ^ngth 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 tip the necklace, and stands looking at it. Then, breaking down.) O John, John, it's long since I left home. Fenwick. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you. DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead, God pardon her ! Fenwick. Dorothy, who is the man ? Dorothy. O poor Dorothy ! O poor dead Dorothy ! John, you found me breaking this : me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old romance by Edenside. Diana— O what a name for me ! Do you see this trinket ? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say ? my whole life, for there is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help me. I have that to tell— there is a secret— I have a secret, John— O, for God's sake, understand. That Diana you revered — O John, John, you must never speak of love to me again. Fenwick. What do you say ? How dare you ? Dorothy. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, 130 BEAU AUSTIN even she, she whom you so believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world only to c„ . 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 ? Dorothv. Ay, even so ; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot our innocent youth, and your honest love. Fenwick. Dorothy, O Dorothy ! Dorothy. Yours is the pain ; but, O John, think it is for your good. Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, how many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has pro\ ed 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. 131 BEAU AUSTIN I Fenwick. Know it ? Do you think I cannot C~ . guess? Do you think I had not heard he followed you. Do you think I had not suffered — O suffered ! George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it ! Dorothy (at his feet). Pity me ; spare me, spare your Dorothy ! I love him — love him — love him ! Fenwick. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now you would rob me of my revenge. DOROTHY. I know it ; and shall I ask, and you not grant ? Fenwick (raising her). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, nothing in vain from me. You ask his life ; I give it you, as I would give you my soul ; as I would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done ; you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end ; not even revenge. (He sits.) Dorothy, you see your work. Dorothy. O God, forgive me. Fenwick. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do. Dorothy. As you do ? Do you forgive me, John ? Fenwick. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was done, I was wrong ; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you taught me ; I shall still prove to you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I am no backward friend. Farewell. 132 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 corre- cpond iviih glass on table. Breakfast table, L., front. Door, L. The Beau is discovered at table, in dressing-goivn, trifling with correspondence. Menteith is frothing chocolate. SCENE I Austin, Menteith .. Menteith. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the Sc. I pleasure of meeting two of the Dook's gentlemen. Austin. Well, and was his Royal Highness satis- fied with his quarters ? Menteith. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe. Austin. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as pleased with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever came to the Wells in another person's carriage ; Duke or not, it shall be the last, Menteith. 133 BEAU AUSTIN II Menteith. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And C c x how many times have we made that journey back and forth ? Austin. Enough to make us older than we look. Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well. Austin. We wear well, Menteith. Menteith. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Mus- grave is of the company. Austin. Is she so ? Well, well ! well, well ! Menteith. I've not seen the young lady myself,Mr. George ; but the barber tells me she's looking poorly. Austin. Poorly ? Menteith. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word. Austin. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first. Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. {A bell. Men- teith goes out, and re-enters with card.) Austin {with card). Whom have we here ? An- thony 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 ? 134 Sc. 2 BEAU AUSTIN And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick ? I had his line ; but like all my old comrades, he thinks last C„ 2 about himself, and gives me not of his news. ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name is still remembered in the regiment. (Austin bows.) The Colonel — he keeps his health, sir, considering his age (AUSTIN bows again, and looks at MENTEITH) — tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow in your time. Austin. I believe I was — in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells. Anthony. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir : to pay my respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt and sister. Austin. In my time — to which you refer — the ladies had come first. Anthony. The women? I take you, sir. But then you see, a man's relatives don't count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the world, I am fairly running away from the sex : I am positively in flight. Little Hortense of the Opera ; you know ; she sent her love to you. She's mad about me, I think. You never saw a creature so fond. Austin. Well, well, child ! you are better here. In my time — to which you have referred — I knew the lady. Does she wear well ? ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir ! Austin. No offence, child, no offence. She was a 135 BEAU AUSTIN very lively creature. But you neglect your chocolate, C c 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 ? Anthony. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related. AUSTIN. Or perhaps— I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have the vanity to believe I formed his business. Anthony. I — I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this Jack Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam — a very pretty light-weight, sir — drank seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us inside the eighty minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut ; but me and the Bantam went out and finished the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was with us. He spoke of you, too, Tom did : said you'd given him a wrinkle for his second fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you're not forgotten. AUSTIN {botus). 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 ? 136 BEAU AUSTIN Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. II Anthony. The Colonel told me that you liked to g^ 2 shake an elbow. Your big main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an honour, I assure you. Austin . But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve ? Anthony. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings ? Austin. You forget, child : a family must hang together. When I was young — in my time — I was alone ; and what I did concerned myself. But a youth who has — as I think you have — a family of ladies to protect, must watch his honour, child, and preserve his fortune. . . . You have no commands from Sir Frederick ? Anthony. None, sir, none. Austin. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I shall be charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith ? Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. {Shows Anthony out.) SCENE III Austin, Menteith, returning Austin. Was I ever like that, Menteith ? Menteith. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. Austin. Youth, my good fellow, youth. 137 Sc. 3 3 BEAU AUSTIN II ]\Iknteith. Quite so, Mr. George. C c « 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. (Menteith takes off Austin's dressing-gown ; Austin passes R. to dressing-table, and takes up first cravat?) Austin. Will the hair do, Menteith ? Menteith. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (Austin proceeds to wind first cravat. A bell : exit Menteith. Austin drops first cravat in basket and takes second.) AUSTIN (winding and singing) — ' I'd crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill ! ' (Second cravat a failure. Re-enter Menteith with card.) Fenwick ? of Allonby Shaw ? A good family, Menteith, but I don't know the gentleman. (Lays down card, and takes up third cravat.) Send him away with every r 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. 138 BEAU AUSTIN Austin {with waistcoat). Show him in, Menteith, at once. {Singing and fitting waistcoat at glass) — C~ -, ' 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. g c , George. Austin. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open. Fenwick. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, Richard Gaunt ? Austin. The county member ? An old and good friend. But you need not go so far afield : I know your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal distance, cousins. Fenwick. I desired, sir, from the nature of my 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. {Exit Men- teith.) 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. 139 BEAU AUSTIN II Austin. From Miss Musgrave ? C^£ « Fenwick. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own authority. Upon me the con- sequence. Austin. Proceed. Fenwick. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest of my friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope to make my wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope for another : that I may call her Mrs. Austin. Austin. In the best interests of the lady (rising) I question if you have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such interference there is but one issue : to whom shall I address my friend ? Fenwick. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. Strange as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you that I came prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and not fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has honoured me with her commands. These are my law, and by these your life is sacred. Austin. Then, sir (with //is liana J upon the bell), this conversation becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage ; and, as you are a gentle- man 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 im- 140 BEAU AUSTIN plore her to be my wife, to be my queen ; my saint she had been always ! She was too noble to deceive c~ . 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, abandon- ing revenge, trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my misfortune — O Mr. Austin ! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a woman — you who excel me in every point of advan- tage, 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 I had married every lady by whom it is my fortune — not my merit — to have been distinguished, the Wells would scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, 141 BEAU AUSTIN sir, that while I respect your emotion, I am myself Sc A con( J uc t cc l by experience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare ? 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 silliness in one who, having fought, and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitu- lates 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 knows 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 142 BEAU AUSTIN weighed in vain against the world's code of honour ; you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from Sc J. 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 some- thing 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 elements 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. H3 BEAU AUSTIN Where, sir, is the honour ? What facet of the dia- c„ . rnond 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 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 consciousness of self-abasement, the shame of know- ing 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 ot 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 youself. Austin. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh 144 BEAU AUSTIN FENWICK {interrupting him). O sir, be just, be II just! Sc. 4 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 crowning triumph is that we celebrate over our con- quering selves. Sir, you are right. Kindness, ay kindness after all. And with age, to become clement. Yes, ambition first ; then, the rounded vanity — victory still novel ; and last, as you say, the royal mood of the mature 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. I 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 145 BEAU AUSTIN II AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other J^ c « way. (Embraces him. Menteith shows him out!) SCENE V Austin Sc. K 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 every- where : and now he must leave his bones in Tun- bridge Wells. (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 Sc. 6 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 ? 146 BEAU AUSTIN Menteith. Mr. George, you was always a gentle- man- Sc. 6 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 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. (Siis before dressing-glass ; Menteith produces curling irons and plies tliem. Austin sings) — ' I'd crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill ! ' Drop 147 Musical Induction: the ' Minuet ' from '•Don Giovanni' ACT III The stage represents Miss Foster's lodging as in Act J. SCENE I Dorothy, R., at tambour ; Anthony, C, bestriding ,tt chair; Miss Foster, L.C. Sc. I 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, except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I'm done with him. I assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corinthian 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 ! 148 BEAU AUSTIN Dorothy. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I'm old enough to be your mother. C c ^ Anthony. My dear Dolly, you do not understand ; vou are not a man of the world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in the service. Miss Foster. I am not surprised that it maintains its old reputation. You know, my dear (/V> Dorothy), it was George Austin's regiment. Dorothy. Was it, Aunt ? ANTHONY. Beau Austin ? Yes, it was ; and a precious 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 distinguished 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, I know— that duel ! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I don't think you'd be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards. 149 BEAU AUSTIN III Dorothy. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Cq j 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 gentleman : 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 ? 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 Sc. 2 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 confounded nonsense in her head, and wants looking after. MlSS Foster. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask you to speak of Dorothy with greater respect. 150 BEAU AUSTIN With your permission, your sister and I will continue to direct our own affairs. When we require the c~ ~ interference 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 Sc. 3 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. If his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his ungentlemanly 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 clay. It's 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. Nothing in it of course ; but is he a man whose visits I can sanction ? 151 BEAU AUSTIN SCENE IV ,tt Anthony, Barbara Sc. A 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 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 ignorant 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 152 BEAU AUSTIN and through him ; we know that a man like that is no fit company for any inexperienced girl. Sc J. 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, all 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 {with 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 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 153 BEAU AUSTIN going for a jaunt ; and Miss Foster had her gout ; gQ a and I was to go with them ; and he told me to make- believe I was ill ; and I did ; and I 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 ! 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 manage ; 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 154 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 dammed villain, and Dorothy Musgrave is no girl for you to marry : God help me that I 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 perhaps 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 let 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 conclusions ? 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. 155 III Sc. 5 BEAU AUSTIN ANTHONY. You don't seem able to grasp the situa- te - tion, Jack. It's very remarkable ; I'm the girl's natural protector ; 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. FENWICK. Now mark me fairly : Mr. Austin fol- lows 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. Austin only, but to me. Anthony. It's all a most discreditable business, and I 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 different 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 c (z 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, 156 BEAU AUSTIN Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual refresh- ment - Sc. 6 Anthony. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand ? Austin. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fan- sister. 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 some- thing more explicit. Austin. The right, my dear sir, is beyond ques- tion ; but it is one, as you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman insists. Fenwick. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go. Anthony. I have asked a question. Austin. Which 1 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 mis- conceived me. I have no wish to offend : at least at present. 157 BEAU AUSTIN Austin. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had Sc 6 near d amiss. I trust we shall be friends. Fenwick. Come, Anthony, come : here is your sister. (As Fenwick and Anthony^ out, C, enter Dorothy, L.) SCENE VII Austin, Dorothy Sc. 7 DOROTHY. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me. Austin. Madam, can you doubt of that desire ? can you question my sincerity ? 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 com- plain 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, 158 BEAU AUSTIN originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. 1 1 1 1 have excellent health, an excellent temper, and the g c - 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 marriage, 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 repa- ration. 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 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, 159 BEAU AUSTIN what a humbling of my pride to have been thus C« ~ deceived : to have taken for my idol such a common- place imposture as 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, George — are you worthy to be my husband ? Austin. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool ; I blundered away the most precious oppor- tunity ; 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- 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- begin ? 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. 1 60 BEAU AUSTIN Austin. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be HI it : I respect, and I will not deceive you. But give C r « 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 fortune 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 con- fession 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, indeed, in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, dearest lady, with what honesty I speak : 161 BEAU AUSTIN if I win you, it. shall be with the unblemished truth.) g c j 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. I 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 penitence, 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 162 BEAU AUSTIN understand. Can you notsee? the lad will force me HI to a duel. g ( - < y 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 God ! not yet too old, to learn a lesson and to accept a reproof. I will not 163 BEAU AUSTIN keep you longer : I will go — I am so bankrupt in C c - 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 England, to-morrow ; you shall be no longer tortured with the neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, farewell ! SCENE VIII Dorothy ; to whom, Anthony, L. Sc. 8 DOROTHY (on her knees, and reaching with her hands.) George, George ! (Enter 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 nothing 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. 164 BEAU AUSTIN Dorothy. I have refused him. Ill Anthony. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield g^ g 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. Dorothy. He? never! You forget, you forget whom 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 165 BEAU AUSTIN of your contrivance ? Madam, you make me blush. Sc 8 ^ ut to ~d a y at least I know where I can find him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance atten- dance 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 Tunbridge. Promise, you poor fool ? what promise holds 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 : ' Che faro? as the drop falls. Drop. i 66 Musical Induction: 'Gavotte;' '■Iphigenie en Aulide.' Gluck ACT IV The Stage represents the Pantiles : the alley s fronting the spectators in parallel lines. A t the back, a stand of musicians, front which the ' Gavotte'' is repeated on muted strings. The music continues nearly through Scene I. Visitors ivalking to and fro beneath the limes. A seat in front, L. SCENE I Miss Foster, Barbara, Menteith ; Visitors IV Miss Foster {entering j escorted by Menteith, c c t and followed 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 over her.) Menteith. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. George for more than thirty years. This is a privilege — a very great privilege. I have beheld him in the first societies, moving among 167 BEAU AUSTIN IV the first rank of personages ; and none, madam, none Qq j outshone him. Barbara. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the play, he talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn't hear a word of Mr. Kean. MlSS 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. MlSS 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. MlSS 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- 168 BEAU AUSTIN guished circles, life is but a slavery. None of the IV best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr. George ; So T Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you'll excuse my plain- ness, 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. 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 knowledge of Mr. George's character have been positively unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. George like his old attendant. The goodness of that gentle- man — but, madam, you will soon be equally fortu- nate, if, as I understand, 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 con- gratulate you. I put a second curl in Mr George's hair on purpose. 169 BEAU AUSTIN SCENE II To these, Austin. Mknteith /a//s dach, and Austin takes his place in front of Miss Foster, his ,,, attitude a counterpart of Menteith's. Sc. 2 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 offered myself to Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most excellent reason, has refused me. Miss Foster. Is it possible ? why, my dear George Austin, . . . then I suppose it is John Fenvvick after all! AUSTIN. Not one of us is worthy. Miss Foster. This is the most amazing circum- stance. 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, Evelina, we are no longer in the heyday of our 170 BEAU AUSTIN youth — judge me as you will : I should prefer to have IV it known. Cp 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 Evelina, 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 illustrous guest will descend amongst us ; and I observe Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have a pressing business. Suffer me, dear Evelina ! SCENE III To these, Fenwick. Miss Foster remains seated, L. Austin goes R. to Fenwick, whom he salutes with great respect. Austin. Mr. Fenwick, 1 have played and lost. c r - That noble lady, justly incensed at my misconduct, 171 BEAU AUSTIN IV has condemned me. Under the burden of such a C„ - 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 1 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 intemperate 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 wane, but still filled with sufficiency, gloriously presumed 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. 172 BEAU AUSTIN The laugh — the position of the hero— will make it IV circulate ; — you perceive I am in earnest ; — and in g c -, 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, Anthony, 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 1 ; couples passing 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 hand. Austin. Dear child, let me present you to his Sc. A. Royal Highness. Anthony [with necklace). Mr. Austin, do you recognise 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 scoundrel. 173 BEAU AUSTIN IV Austin. My child, you will regret these words : I Sc. 4 refuse your quarrel. 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. Music stops. Tableau. Sc. 5 Austin (recovering his composure). Your Royal Highness, suffer me to excuse the disrespect of this young gentleman. He has so much apology, and 1 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 mis- construction. 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 happiness. I was not worthy of that lady ; when I was defeated in fair field, I presumed to make advances through her maid. See in how laughable manner fate repaid me ! The waiting- girl derided, the mistress denied, and now comes in this very ardent champion who publicly insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it right, I am persuaded, all of you, that I should accept my 174 BEAU AUSTIN proper punishment in silence ; you, my Lord Duke, IV to pardon this young gentleman ; and you, Mr. g c r Musgrave, to spare me further provocation, which I am determined to ignore. Dorothy {rushing forward, falling at Austin's knees, and seizing his hand). George, George, it was for me. My hero ! take me ! What you will ! 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 fexv bars of the 1 Lass of Richmond Hill.') THE END 175 ADMIRAL GUINEA 177 DEDICATED WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM TO ANDREW LANG BY THE SURVIVORS OF T H E IV A L R US Savannah, this ■z-jth day of September 1884 i8o PERSONS REPRESENTED John Gaunt, called 'Admiral Guinea,' once Captain of the Slaver A reth itsa. ARETHUSA Gaunt, his Daughter. David Pew, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the Aretkusa. Kit FRENCH, a Privateersman. Mrs. Drake, Landlady of the Admiral Benboiv Inn. The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time is about the year 1760. The action occupies part of a day and night. Note. — Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed in square brackets, thus [ ]. ADMIRAL GUINEA ACT I The Stage represents a room in Admiral Guinea's house : fire- place, arm-chair, and table with Bible; L., towards the front ; door C, with window on each side, the window on the R., practicable ; doors, R. and L., back; comer cupboard, a brass-strapped sea-chest fixed to the wall and floor, R.; cutlasses, telescopes, sextant, quadrant, a calendar, and several maps upon the wall ; a ship clock; three wooden chnirs ; a dresser against wall, R. C; on the chimney-piece the model of a brig and several shells. The centre bare of furniture. Through the windows and the door, which is open, green trees and a small field of sea. SCENE I Arethusa is discovered, dusting t ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week to-day ! Sc. I 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 181 ADMIRAL GUINEA icebergs sail ; perhaps at anchor among these wild Cp j islands of the snakes and buccaneers. 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 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 hivi\ Sc. 2 Arethusa [dusting telescope). At sea they have less dust at least : that's so much comfort. Kit. Sweetheart, ahoy ! Arethusa. Kit ! Kit. Arethusa. Arethusa. My Kit ! Home again — O my love ! — home again to me ! Kit. As straight as wind and tide could carry me ! Arethusa. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit — O ! 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. 182 ADMIRAL GUINEA Arethusa. Ten months and a week : you haven't counted the days as I have. Another day gone, and g c ~ 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 : brown I may be, never hand- some. 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 that for a curiosity ? Well, that's so : you're right ; the rarity is in the girl that's worth it ten times over. Faithful ? 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, I 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 I — 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 183 ADMIRAL GUINEA with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and Sc. 2 does not know that I 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. 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 furnish 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 any- 184 ADMIRAL GUINEA thing but sin. He's a stern man because he's in the right. Sc 2 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 expect from a man like him ? He won't see I'm starving for a chance to mend ; ' Mend,' he'll say ; ' I'll 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 nothing now. Stand by to back me up. SCENE III To these, GAUNT, C. Kit {with Arethusa's hand). Captain Gaunt, I g c ? have come to ask you for your daughter. Gaunt. Hum. {He sits in his chair, L.) 185 o ADMIRAL GUINEA Kit. I love her, and she loves mc, sir. I've left the Cq *, 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 lansruase of this world. You have been trained among sinners who 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, 1 86 ADMIRAL GUINEA poor dupe, in your own strength. You are a roysterer, a jovial companion ; you mean no harm — you are C~ ^ nobody's enemy but your own. No doubt you tell this girl of mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that you can change. Christopher, speaking under correc- tion, I defy you ! You ask me for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from the burn- ing : I look at you ; I read you through and through ; and I tell you — no ! [Striking 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 187 ADMIRAL GUINEA as a slaver, but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you C c ^ hear me plead : I ask you for my chance ; don't you deny it to me. 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 tb sail upon a bowline ? 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 finger. 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 1 88 ADMIRAL GUINEA to me — no, do not come ! but send a word — and I I shall know all, and you shall have your ring. (Gaunt g c -, 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 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 keep the ring. SCENE IV Arethusa, Gaunt Arethusa. Father, what have we done that you J$C. A. 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 189 ADMIRAL GUINEA left me on this earth ; and I must watch over your 5c. 4 carnal 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 Sc. 5 Arethusa. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew that Kit was homeward bound, 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 ; and the world all full of hope ? O, hope, you're a good word ! 190 ADMIRAL GUINEA SCENE VI Arethusa ; to her, Pew I Pew {singing without)— Sc. 6 ' 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 ? 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 glorions 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. 191 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that Sc 6 y° u are ' n a manner °f speaking alone ? or do my ears deceive 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 re- member 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, and 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 com- mander's gal {seizes Arethusa). Ah, and a bouncer you are, and no mistake. Arethusa. Let me go ! how dare you ? 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 j he stops her.) No, you don't ; O, I can hear a flea jump ! [But it's 192 ADMIRAL GUINEA here where I miss my deadlights. Poor old Pew ; him as the ladies always would have for their fancy C„ g 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 ot speaking 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 ! 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 another word that isn't in answer to my questions, 193 ADMIFAL GUINEA I'll pull your j'ints out one by one. Where's the Cp g Commander ? 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 ! 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 kiss ! Come ! Arethusa. Leave go, leave go ! Pew. Hey ? you would ? Arethusa. Ah ! (She thrusts him down, and escapes to door, R.) SCENE VII Sc. 7 P EW (picking himself up). Ah, she's a bouncer, she is ! Where's my stick ? That's the sort of 194 ADMIRAL GUINEA female for David Pew. Didn't she fight ? and didn't she struggle? and shouldn't I like to twist her lovely Qq 7 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 195 ADMIRAL GUINEA avoids the chest). No sea-chest. I must have a c„ ~ 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 tistens.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral ? (With the whine.) Kind Christian friends SCENE VIII PEW ; to him GAUNT C r o 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.' — ' I'll 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 196 ADMIRAL GUINEA want in a manner of speaking is money and rum. I (A pause.) Sc. 8 Gaunt. David Pew, I have known you a long time. Pew. And so you have ; aboard the old Arethnsa; 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.' 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 doubloons : 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 197 ADMIRAL GUINEA word : fair as between man and man ; and we had it Cp o 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 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 detested you ; your captain — that was me, John Gaunt, 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 baracoons and burned the poor soulless creatures in their chains?] Ay, you were a scandal to the Guinea coast, from Lagos down to Calabar ? 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. 198 ADMIRAL GUINEA GAUNT. What next ? You shipped with Flint the I Pirate. What you did then I know not ; the deep g c g seas have kept the secret : kept it, ay, and will keep against the Great Day. God smote you with blind- ness, 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.) 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 199 ADMIRAL GUINEA I you? Reading, by thunder! Well, here's my c c g 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 grimace, strikes his hand upon the pocket with the keys, and goes.) Drop. 200 ACT II The Stage represents the parlour of the 'Admiral Benbo7i'' inn. Fire- place, R., ■with high-backed settles on each side ; in front of these, 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 Mrs. Drake, out and in u Pew {entering) . Kind Christian friends {listen- Sc. I ing; then droppi7ig 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 201 ADMIRAL GUINEA enough of it to wet your eye ; damn all greediness, g c j I say. Pot [drinks), small beer — a drink that I ab'or like bilge! What I want is rum. (Calling, and rapping with stick on table.) 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 wonder ! Pew. And a. bed to follow : if yon please.] Mrs. Drake. This is the 'Admiral Benbow,' 1 a respectable 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 daylights. ' Damme,' says the Admiral, 'is that old Pew, my old Pew ? ' he snys. — ' It's old Pew, sir,' says the first lootenant, ' worse luck,' he 202 ADMIRAL GUINEA says. — 'Then damme,' says Admiral Benbow, 'if that's how they serve a lion-'arted seaman, damme Cp j 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 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 warrant for it. Get me a noggin of rum, and 20^ ADMIRAL GUINEA suthin' to scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot CJq j 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 tabic, 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 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. 204 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew (trying new coin between his teeth). In course you didn't, my dear ; but I did, and I thought I'd g c j mention 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. 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 20; ADMIRAL GUINEA true. And if you'll be as good as get me another c„ j noggin 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 has 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 morn- ing, do you think she knew me ? No more'n a babe unborn ! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed for her, I was the picter of aman-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 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, shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of luck, and given over for dead by all your messmates 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 noggin of rum. Mrs. Drake. I think you've had enough. 206 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. I don't; so bear a hand. (Exit Mrs. II Drake; Pew empties the glass.) Rum, ah, rum, g c> j you're a lovely creature ; they haven't never done you justice. {Proceeds to Jill and light pipe j 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 gentle- man 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 parlour, where he has it bolted to the wall, as I've seen 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 ! 207 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. Well then, if you was, where's the chest ? Sc. I Beside the chimbley, hey ? {Winking.) Beside the table with the 'oly Bible ? Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, you don't get any infor- mation 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 ot 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 these, Kit, a little drunk Sc. 2 Kit {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 enters ; 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. Kit. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. {Kisses her.) 208 ADMIRAL GUINEA Mrs. Drake. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those 1 1 other houses, where the stuff they give you, my dear, c„ ^ 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 for hint.) 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 I ? 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 209 ADMIRAL GUINEA you, we that keeps a public-house — we know you, C^ c 2 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? Arethusacry? 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, J?.) Pew. Cap'n, I'm a brother 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 running 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 210 ADMIRAL GUINEA looks ? It's the 'art that does it : the 'art is the sea- II man's star ; and here's old David Pew's, a matter of g c> 2 fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British Constitootion. Kit. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. 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 tabic, R., 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 Sc. 3 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 I love you dearer. Arethusa. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not the way. Perhaps he thinks too 211 ADMIRAL GUINEA much of the guineas : well, gather them— if you think Cp - 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 I ? Would I ? Ah, just couldn't and just won't I, then ! Mrs. Drake. I hope, madam, you don't refer to my 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 declare 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 ? 212 ADMIRAL GUINEA Kit. On my knees I'll drink it ! (As he kneels and \\ drains the glass, Gaunt enters, and he scrambles to g^ -, his feet.) SCENE IV To these, Gaunt Gaunt. Arethusa, this is no place for you. Sc. 4 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 husband for this innocent maid ? Kit. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. 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, Christopher. 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 213 ADMIRAL GUINEA rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings Sc A °f Y our 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 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 offences 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 214 ADMIRAL GUINEA the kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face ; and then you'll pray for me ? What's that ? Insult C £ . 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 hispipc). Commander, c~ r shake ! Hooray for old England ! If there's any- thing 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. Commander, give it a name, and let that name be rum ! 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 215 ADMIRAL GUINEA man to up and force a act of parlcyment upon ahelp- CJq r less 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, lie 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, Pll 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 216 ADMIRAL GUINEA are — a low blind man — and your clothes they would disgrace a scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit ; and O, c„ - 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 did 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 Sc. 6 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 argyment 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 217 ADMIRAL GUINEA woman, Pew, and she says you've the devil in your Sc.6 face - Pew. Ah, and why, says you ? Because I up and put her in her place, when she forgot herself to you, Commander. Kit. Well, Pew, that's so ; you stood by me like a man. Shake hands, Pew ; and we'll make anight 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, As well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go.' Chorus, Cap'n ! 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 it's time for us to go." ' Give it mouth, Commander ! 218 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew and Kit (in chorus) — II ' Time for us to go, oC, C Time for us to go, And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, For it's time for us to go.' Pew. I ain't sung like that since I sang to Admiral 'Awke, the night before I lost my eyes, I ain't. ' Sink me!' says he, says Admiral 'Awke, my old com- mander (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, Commander ; 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 ! 219 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. Lord love you, if I'd a-had a 'ed like yours ! Sc 6 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.' Lay forward, lads ! Kit and Pew [in c horns) — ' 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 argyment ? 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 220 ADMIRAL GUINEA you, as between man and man, would it have been seaman-like to let on and show myself to a old g c a 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 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 woman, which many a time and oft it 221 ADMIRAL GUINEA 1 1 has happened to old Pew ; and him with a feeling c r < '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 Pll 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 ? Pew. Can I ? You leave that to me ; Pll bring you to your moorings ; I'm the man that can, and Pm him that will. But only, look here, let's under- stand 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 ? Pll go through fire and water. Pew. Pll risk it.— Well, then, see here, my son : another swallow and we jog. Kit. No, not to-night, Pew, not to-night! 222 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. Commander, in a manner of speaking, wherefore ? g c 6 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 nincpence. [KIT. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your dipper 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 : Pm 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 (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, and with that, the lantern) Hey ? That's it. Hey ? Go and pity the poor blind ! 223 ADMIRAL GUINEA II Kit {while Pew blows out the candles). But I Sc 6 sa y' P ew > wnat do you want with it ? Pew. To see by, my son. {He shuts the lantern and puts it in his pocket. Stage quite dark. Moon- light 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 (or us to go, And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 'Twas lime for us to go.' Drop 224 ACT III The Stage represents the Admirafs house, as in Act I. Gaunt, seated, is reading aloud ; ArethuSA sits at his feet. Candies SCENE I Arethusa, Gaunt [Gaunt {reading). ' And Ruth said, Intreat me g c y not to 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. J 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 22C ADMIRAL GUINEA your soul. It is through our affections that we are g£ , smitten with the true pain, even the pain that kills. ARETHUSA. And yet this pain is our natural lot. 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 I 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 226 ADMIRAL GUINEA child, and cannot ; but I can and do. Remember ? HI shall I ever forget ? Here or hereafter, ever forget ! c c T Ten years she was my wife, and ten years she lay a-dying. Arethusa, she was a saint on earth ; and it was I that killed her. Arethusa. Killed her ? my mother ? You ? 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 227 ADMIRAL GUINEA weep and pray for the poor heathen creatures that I g c j bought and sold and shipped into misery, till my con- science 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 in- deed. Well, it fell out that we had good luck trading, and I stowed the brig with these poor heathen as full as she would hold. We 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; 228 ADMIRAL GUINEA but from the hour she heard that story, the garment HI of the flesh began to waste and perish, the fountains g c j of her life dried up ; she faded before my face ; and in two months from my landing — O Hester, Hester, would God I had died for thee ! Arethusa. Mother ! O poor soul ! O poor father ! 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 killed her. At that I broke out calling on her to stop, for it was more than I 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, pleasure, 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! 229 ADMIRAL GUINEA Gaunt. They call me a miser. The)- say that in g c j this sea-chest of mine I hoard my gold {He passes 7v\ 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 ring — 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 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. 230 ADMIRAL GUINEA Gaunt. Why should I have spoken ? It was all HI between my Hester and me. g c ^ 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. 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 ? ("/AIN'T. Ay, do you so love him ? 231 ADMIRAL GUINEA Arethusa. Even as my mother loved my father. g c j Gaunt. Ay? Then we will sec. 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. Theii, 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 Sc. 2 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 {seising 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 ? By George, Pew, I'll make your fortune. Pew. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. D'ye see a old sea-chest ? 232 ADMIRAL GUINEA Kit. See it, Pew ? why, d'ye think I'm blind ? HI Pew. Take me across, and let me feel of her. c c 2 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, Pm 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. Lets 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 wallowing 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 grindstone 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 ? 233 ADMIRAL GUINEA HI Pew. Ay did I; and you shall. I'm a biter: I c„ ^ bring blood. Kit. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or Pd 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 3c. 2 Pew. Pve got him, Cap'n. What, kill my old commander, 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 234 J ADMIRAL GUINEA came while you were abroad. Sure you'll not listen to him. And you, Kit, you, what is this ? c„ <, 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 ?] 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 Benboiv 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 'elphim, by his account of it, while he nailed the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely maid of yours : for a lovely maid she is, and one as touched old Pew's 'art. 2 35 ADMIRAL GUINEA Cap'n, when I 'eard that, my blood biled. ' Young i^ c - 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 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 uppermost 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 ? 236 ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. Ah, Cap'n, what a 'ed for argyment ! HI Kit. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I g c , 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 ask the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the quarter-deck before old Admiral 'Awke himself (touching 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, ' I'll 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. 237 J ADMIRAL GUINEA Pew. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and c„ .-, a 'ard man to believe, like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. But it's time for me to go, and I'll be going. My service to you, Cap'n : and I kiss my 'and to that lovely female. (Singing) — ' Time for us to go, Time lor us to go, And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 'Twas time for us to go.' SCENE IV Kit, Arethusa, Gaunt Sc. 4 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 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 ARETH USA'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 I believed him 238 ADMIRAL GUINEA then, and followed him. He brought me here, he HI told me your chest was full of gold that would make g c< , 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 myself wholly up to you and to my mother ; I will obey 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! I 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.] 239 ADMIRAL GUINEA Kit. Let me go ? My girl, if you had cast me out Cp . 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. I leave you free. Kit. Nay, sir, not so : not with my will. I'm accused and counted guilty ; the proofs are against me ; the girl I 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.) 240 ADMIRAL GUINEA SCENE V Gaunt, Arethusa, afterwards Pew t j t Arethusa. Father, you believe in him ; you do ; Sc. ^ 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.) C c f. Kit — dearest Kit ! wait ! I will come to you soon. (Gaunt re-enters, C, as the drop falls.) 241 ACT IV The Stage represents the Ad.mira.rs house, as in Acts I. and 111, A chair, L., in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. Enter Arethusa, L., with candle ; she lights another; and passes to door, R., which she unbolts. Stage light SCENE I Arethusa, Kit IV c c T 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 duke- dom on the other side — which would I choose ? 242 ADMIRAL GUINEA Arethusa. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was I V not my life that was at stake, it was yours. Had it C c , been mine — mine, Kit— what had you done, then ? 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 I'd forgive 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 some- how. . . . By George, he had a key ! He can get in again. 243 ADMIRAL GUINEA IV ARETHUSA. Again? that man ! C c j 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. Kit. Arethusa, that's below the belt ! Never you fear ; I'll give a good account of him. Arethusa {taking cutlass from the wait). 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 remain on Gauul'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 stirring in his room ! 244 ADMIRAL GUINEA Kit. Let me get clear ; tell him why when I'm IV gone. The door ? c~ j Arethusa. Locked! Kit. The window ! Arethusa. Quick, quick. (She unfastens R. win- dow, by w/iic/i Kit goes out.) SCENE II Arethusa, Gaunt entering L. Arethusa. Father, Kit is gone. ... He is asleep. Sc. 2 GAUNT. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my Hester still waiting ! {He goes A\ 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, Air. 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 245 ADMIRAL GUINEA IV though the sea were making a breach over the ship at Sc 2 ^ ie 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 labouring 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 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 approaching. GAUNT passes L. front and sits.) 246 ADMIRAL GUINEA Gaunt (beginning to count the taps). One — two IV — two hundred and five Sc. 2 Arethusa {listening). God help me, the blind man ! (She runs to door, C. ; the key 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 (sottovoce). All snug. (Coming down.) So Sc. 3 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. (At 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 — 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 weasand ; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah, Jack, 247 ADMIRAL GUINEA IV that's another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was c„ ^ God Almighty 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 Gaunfs 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 toioards Gaunt, intently listening and changing his direction as Gaunt changes his position on the stage.) Arethusa (rushing to intercept him). Father, father, wake ! Gaunt. Hester, Hester ! (He turns, in time to set Arethusa grapple Pew in the centre of the Stage, and Few force her down.) Arethusa. Kit ! Kit ! Pew (with the knife raised). Pew's way ! 248 ADMIRAL GUINEA SCENE IV To these, Kit jy (He leaps through window R., and cuts Pew down. Sc. A. At the same moment, Gaunt, who has been staring helplessly at his daughter's peril, fully awakes.) Gaunt. Death and blood ! (Kit, helping Arethusa, 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 Kit gives to him.) 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 249 ADMIRAL GUI NEA IV give you a toast : Here's Fiddler's Green, and Q c . damn all lubbers ! (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 forbid 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 to 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 O, walk humbly ! CURTAIN 250 University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. iIn? ^ ol Call,omi a Los Angeles L 006 496 77 4 mmmS^ mi iimm facility AA 000 376 320