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 with stuff like that.

SCENE III

To these, Smith and Jean, C

Smith. Is the king of the castle in, please?

Lawson (aside). Lord’s sake, it’s Smith!

Brodie (to Smith). I beg your pardon?

Smith. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir?

Brodie. What do you want with him, my man?

Smith. I’ve a message for him, sir; a job of work, sir.

Brodie (to Smith; referring to Jean). And who is this?

Jean. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence, I hope, sir.

Lawson. It’s just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd. It’ll be for the rent?

Jean. Just that, sir.

Lawson. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road to my office wi’ ye. (Exeunt Brodie, Lawson, Leslie, C.)

SCENE IV

Smith, Jean Watt, Old Brodie

Smith (bowing them out). Your humble and most devoted servant, George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (At the mirror.) In that case George’s mother bids him bind his hair. (Kisses his hand.) My dearest Duchess – (To Jean.) I say, Jean, there’s a good deal of difference between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton’s Wynd.

Jean. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?

Smith. Ah, Jean, if you’d cast affection’s glance on this poor but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like these. He didn’t know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a man? Try a man that is.

Jean. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’ that sort o’ talk frae you. And what kind o’ a man are you to even yoursel’ to the likes o’ him? He’s a gentleman.

Smith. Ah, ain’t he, just! And don’t he live up to it? I say, Jean, feel of this chair.

Jean. My! look at yon bed!

Smith. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!

Jean. What a expense!

Smith. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt. (Sings—

 
“Says Bacchus to Venus:
There’s brandy between us,
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!”)
 

Jean. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.

Smith. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons at Mother Clarke’s? But ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn’t. (Seeing Old Brodie for the first time.) Hullo! it’s a man!

Jean. Thonder in the chair. (They go to look at him, their backs to the door.)

Smith. Is he alive?

Jean. I think there’s something wrong with him.

Smith. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?

Jean. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.

Old Brodie. My son – the Deacon – Deacon of his trade.

Jean. He’ll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C., and stands looking on.)

Smith. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (To Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more variegated. Mrs. Deakin (to Jean), let me introduce you to your dear papa.

Jean. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to behave dacent. (This is no’ the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.)

Smith. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.

SCENE V

To these, Hunt, C. (He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder.)

Hunt. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?

Smith (pulling himself together). D – n it, Jerry, what do you mean by startling an old customer like that?

Hunt. What, my brave ’un? You’re the very party I was looking for!

Smith. There’s nothing out against me this time?

Hunt. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (To Old Brodie.) You’ll excuse me, old gentleman?

Smith. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship!.. I say, Jean (you and me had best be on the toddle). We shall be late for church.

Hunt. Lady, George?

Smith. It’s a – yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.

Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe. (That was the name, I think?) Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?

Jean (unmuffling). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wyndheid; there’s naething again’ me.

Hunt. No, to be sure there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt, that might be your born father? (But all this don’t tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.)

Smith (in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (Going with attempted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.

SCENE VI

To these, C., Brodie and Lawson (greatcoat, muffler, lantern)

Lawson (from the door). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.

Jean. That’s the Fiscal himsel’.

Hunt. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?

Lawson. That’s me. Who’ll you be?

Hunt. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.

Lawson. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my office with me and this guid wife.

Brodie (aside to Jean, as she passes with a curtsey). How dare you be here? (Aloud to Smith.) Wait you here, my man.

Smith. If you please, sir. (Brodie goes out, C.)

SCENE VII

Brodie, Smith

Brodie. What the devil brings you here?

Smith. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?

Brodie. (And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?

Smith. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?)

Brodie. There was my uncle the Procurator —

Smith. The Fiscal? He don’t count.

Brodie. What d’ye mean?

Smith. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy – G. S. and Co.’s celebrated Nantz.

Brodie. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?

Smith. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a wink and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks.

Brodie. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue? (Allons! It’s enough to cure a man of vice for this world and the other.) But hark you hither, Smith; this is all damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here.

Smith. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.

Brodie. Can’t you pluck him yourself?

Smith. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. (He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. “Stand and deliver, stap my vitals!”) And the North Road is no bad lay, Deakin.

Brodie. Flush?

Smith (mimicking). “Three graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals! and seven demned farmers, by the Lard – ”

Brodie. By Gad!

Smith. Good for trade, ain’t it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them there lovely little locks at Leslie’s, and them there bigger and uglier marine stores at the Excise Office…

Brodie (impassible). Go on.

Smith. Worse luck!.. We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that maybe you’d like to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant horseman.

Brodie. The old move, I presume? The double set of dice?

Smith. That’s the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up again on the cross. (Just as you did with G. S. and Co.’s own agent and correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.) You always was a neat hand with the bones, Deakin.

Brodie. The usual terms, I suppose?

Smith. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest for your jolly companions every one. (That’s the way we does it!)

Brodie. Who has the dice?

Smith. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.

Brodie. You mean Ainslie? – We trust that creature too much, Geordie.

Smith. He’s all right, Marquis. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his own mother. Why, he’s no more guile in him than a set of sheep’s trotters.

(Brodie. You think so? Then see he don’t cheat you over the dice, and give you light for loaded. See to that George, see to that; and you may count the Captain as bare as his last grazier.

Smith. The Black Flag for ever! George’ll trot him round to Mother Clarke’s in two twos.) How long’ll you be?

Brodie. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can you find your way out?

Smith. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.

SCENE VIII

Brodie, Old Brodie; to whom, Mary

Mary. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will. But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell him. But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and ask me questions – or guess – that will be better, guess.

Brodie. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and they won’t wait.

Mary. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little sister?

Brodie. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me with the dad’s chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And to-morrow morning I will hear your news – your good news; it must be good, you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be.

Mary. I hate your business – I hate all business. To think of chairs, and tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden – and cold pieces of money with the King’s ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you won’t? – Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I’m too happy to find fault with you!

Brodie. “And me a Deacon,” as the Procurator would say.

Mary. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you – nor a bit angry neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow morning?

Brodie. All day long to-morrow, if you like.

Mary. Business or none?

Brodie. Business or none, little sister! I’ll make time, I promise you; and there’s another kiss for surety. Come along. (They proceed to push out the chair, L.C.) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given me one of my headaches, and I’m in haste for bed. You’ll be good, won’t you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow morning till I wake?

Mary. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told me sooner, and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along. (She goes out, pushing chair.)

SCENE IX

Brodie

(He closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors)

Brodie. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! (Goes to clothes-press and proceeds to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber! (Changing neck-band and ruffles.) Eh God! how still the house is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would the world be? (The city has its vizard on, and we – at night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is!) – How still it is!.. My father and Mary – Well! the day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have half a life of his own? – not eight hours out of twenty-four? (Eight shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet.) (Takes out money.) Where’s the blunt? I must be cool to-night, or … steady, Deacon, you must win; damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little longer! (As he blows out the lights.) The Deacon’s going to bed – the poor sick Deacon! Allons! (Throws up the window and looks out.) Only the stars to see me! (Addressing the bed.) Lie there, Deacon! sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till morning. (Gets out of the window.)