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