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ACT II
TABLEAU IV
Evil and Good
The Stage represents the Deacon’s workshop; benches, shavings, tools, boards, and so forth. Doors, C., on the street, and L., into the house. Without, church bells; not a chime, but a slow, broken tocsin.
SCENE I
Brodie (solus). My head! my head! It’s the sickness of the grave. And those bells go on!.. go on … inexorable as death and judgment. (There they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not to be found out. Found out! And to those who are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.) Turn where I will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her child – my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! “My son the Deacon – Deacon of the Wrights!” My thoughts sicken at it. (O, the Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for the Deacon, where’s a hat for the Deacon’s headache? (Searching.) This place is a piggery. To be respectable and not to find one’s hat.)
SCENE II
To him, Jean, a baby in her shawl, C
Jean (who has entered silently during the Deacon’s last words). It’s me, Wullie.
Brodie (turning upon her). What! You here again? (you again!)
Jean. Deacon, I’m unco vexed.
Brodie. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? (Is there nothing – nothing! – will make you spare me this idiotic, wanton persecution?)
Jean. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the day it’s different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken fine it’s the Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the streets.
Brodie. See here, Jean. You must go now. I’ll come to you to-night; I swear that. But now I’m for the road.
Jean. No’ till you’ve heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to pleasure mysel’, where I’m no’ wanted? I’ve a pride o’ my ain.
Brodie. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, in this house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay. (Going.)
Jean. It’s the man frae Bow Street.
Brodie. Bow Street?
Jean. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o’ me; but it’s mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o’ William Brodie … ill as it sets me.
Brodie. (You don’t know what is on my mind, Jennie, else you would forgive me.) Bow Street?
Jean. It’s the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal.
Brodie. Hunt?
Jean. He kens a hantle. He… Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie! I said what I shouldna.
Brodie. Said? Said what?
Jean. Just that ye were a guid frien’ to me. He made believe he was awfu’ sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, “Wha tellt him that?” and that he lee’d.
Brodie. God knows he did! What next?
Jean. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he keept aye harp, harpin’; but after that let-out, he got neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae.
Brodie. Where I got my siller?
Jean. Ay, that was it. “You ken,” says he.
Brodie. Did he? and what said you?
Jean. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey and clever gentleman.
Brodie. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good business. That’s what you should have said. That’s what you would have said had you been worth your salt. But it’s blunder, blunder, outside and in (upstairs, down-stairs, and in my lady’s chamber). You women! Did he see Smith?
Jean. Ay, and kennt him.
Brodie. Damnation! – No, I’m not angry with you, but you see what I’ve to endure for you. Don’t cry. (Here’s the devil at the door, and we must bar him out as best we can.)
Jean. God’s truth, ye are nae vexed wi’ me?
Brodie. God’s truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? Well? That’s right. (Peeping.) Poor wee laddie! He’s like you, Jean.
Jean. I thocht he was liker you.
Brodie. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a better man than his father.
Jean. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I’ll be gin he’s only half sae guid.
Brodie. Well, well, if I win through this, we’ll see what we can dae for him between us. (Leading her out, C.) And now; go – go – go.
Lawson (without L.). I ken the way, I ken the way.
Jean (starting to door). It’s the Fiscal; I’m awa. (Brodie, L.)
SCENE III
To these, Lawson, L
Lawson. A braw day this, William. (Seeing Jean.) Eh. Mistress Watt? And what’ll have brocht you here?
Brodie (seated on bench). Something, uncle, she lost last night, and she thinks that something she lost is here. Voilà .
Lawson. Why are ye no’ at the kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the kirk?
Jean. I’m mebbe no’ what ye would just ca’ reg’lar. Ye see, Fiscal, it’s the wean.
Lawson. A bairn’s an excuse; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. But bairn or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa’ wi’ ye! Hear to the bells; they’re ringing in. (Jean curtsies to both, and goes out C. The bells, which have been ringing quicker, cease.)
SCENE IV
Lawson (to Brodie, returning C. from door). Mulier formosa superne, William: a braw lass and a decent woman forbye.
Brodie. I’m no judge, Procurator, but I’ll take your word for it. Is she not a tenant of yours?
Lawson. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Libberton’s Wynd. Her man’s awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I’m concerned for her (she’s unco bonnie to be left her lane). But it sets me brawly to be finding faut wi’ the puir lass, and me an elder, and should be at the plate. (There’ll be twa words about this in the Kirk Session.) However, it’s nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak’ the mair shame to mysel.’ Na, sir, it’s for you; it’s your business keeps me frae the kirk.
Brodie. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such excellent hands.
Lawson. Ye see, it’s this way. I had a crack wi’ the laddie Leslie, inter pocula (he took a stirrup-cup wi’ me), and he tells me he has askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel’. O, ye needna look sae gash. Did she speak? and what’ll you have said to her?
Brodie. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I asked you to avoid the subject.
Lawson. Ay, I made a note o’ that observation, William (and assoilzied mysel’). Mary’s a guid lass, and I’m her uncle, and I’m here to be answered. Is it to be ay or no?
Brodie. It’s to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye, Procurator, you must help me.
Lawson. Me? ye’re daft! And what for why?
Brodie. Because I’ve spent the trust-money, and I can’t refund it.
Lawson. Ye reprobate deevil!
Brodie. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words!
Lawson. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I’m the Crown Prosecutor.
Brodie. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get your brandy?
Lawson. Eh?
Brodie. Your brandy! Your brandy, man! Where do you get your brandy? And you a Crown official and an elder!
Lawson. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?
Brodie. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator!
Lawson. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o’ that noo!.. Can ye give me some o’ that Cognac? I’m … I’m sort o’ shaken, William, I’m sort o’ shaken. Thank you, William! (Looking piteously at glass.) Nunc est bibendum. (Drinks.) Troth, I’m set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye?
Brodie. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair.
Lawson. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye’re a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak’ you care, my bonnie young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o’ your hurdies. Keep the plainstanes side o’ the gallows. Via trita, via tuta, William Brodie!
Brodie. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?
Lawson. Ay … weel … be’t sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money … damned! It’s felony. Tutor in rem suam, ye ken, tutor in rem suam. But O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller?
Brodie. It’s gone – O how the devil should I know? But it’ll never come back.
Lawson. Dear, dear! A’ gone to the winds o’ heaven! Sae ye’re an extravagant dog, too. Prodigus et furiosus! And that puir lass – eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonnie bairn.
Brodie (stopping his ears). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy!
Lawson. William Brodie, mony’s the long day that I’ve believed in you; prood, prood was I to be the Deacon’s uncle; and a sore hearing have I had of it the day. That’s past; that’s past like Flodden Field; it’s an auld sang noo, and I’m an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But mark ye this – mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no’ sae guid’s I should be; but there’s no’ a saul between the east sea and the wast can lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. I bless God, William Brodie – ay, though he was like my brother – I bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to me, sir? Think shame – think shame upon your heart!
Brodie. Rogues all!
Lawson. You’re the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint – Lord help us, and the honour tint! – sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I’ll say mair, William; we have a’ our weary sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye could bring half the jointure … (potius quam pereas) … for your mither’s son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it’s a sair heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better man mysel’ … but there, there, it’s a sair heart that I have gotten. And the Lord kens I’ll help ye if I can. (Potius quam pereas.) (He goes out.)
SCENE V
Brodie. Sore hearing, does he say? My hand’s wet. But it’s victory. Shall it be go? or stay? (I should show them all I can, or they may pry closer than they ought.) Shall I have it out and be done with it? To see Mary at once (to carry bastion after bastion at the charge) – there were the true safety after all! Hurry – hurry’s the road to silence now. Let them once get tattling in their parlours, and it’s death to me. For I’m in a cruel corner now. I’m down, and I shall get my kicking soon and soon enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of mystery and adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier rogue than the drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. (It was meat and drink to know him in the hollow of my hand, hoarding that I and mine might squander, pinching that we might wax fat.) It was in the laughter of my heart that I tip-toed into his greasy privacy. I forced the strong-box at his ear while he sprawled beside his wife. He was my butt, my ape, my jumping-jack. And now … O fool, fool! (Duped by such knaves as are a shame to knavery, crime’s rabble, hell’s tatterdemalions!) Shorn to the quick! Rooked to my vitals! And I must thieve for my daily bread like any crawling blackguard in the gutter. And my sister … my kind, innocent sister! She will come smiling to me with her poor little love-story, and I must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives!.. I should have died before.
SCENE VI
Brodie, Mary
Mary (tapping without). Can I come in, Will?
Brodie. O yes, come in, come in! (Mary enters.) I wanted to be quiet, but it doesn’t matter, I see. You women are all the same.
Mary. O no, Will, they’re not all so happy, and they’re not all Brodies. But I’ll be a woman in one thing. For I’ve come to claim your promise, dear; and I’m going to be petted and comforted and made much of, although I don’t need it, and… Why, Will, what’s wrong with you? You look … I don’t know what you look like.
Brodie. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well! you’ve come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it? Come, girl! What is it? Can’t you speak?
Mary. Why, Will, what is the matter?
Brodie. I thought you had come to tell me something. Here I am. For God’s sake out with it, and don’t stand beating about the bush.
Mary. O be kind, be kind to me.
Brodie. Kind? I am kind. I’m only ill and worried, can’t you see? Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose! Where do you women get your tears?
Mary. Why are you so cross with me? O, Will, you have forgot your sister! Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It’s your own fault, Will, if you’ve taught me to come to you for kindness, for I always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to me again. I know you will, for this is my great need, and the day I’ve missed my mother sorest. Just a nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give me courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know that you’re my own brother once again.
Brodie. If you’d take a hint, you’d put it off until to-morrow. But I suppose you won’t. On, then, I’m listening. I’m listening!
Mary. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife.
Brodie. He has, has he?
Mary. And I have consented.
Brodie. And…?
Mary. You can say that to me? And that is all you have to say?
Brodie. O no, not all.
Mary. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid.
Brodie. I suppose you want my consent?
Mary. Can you ask?
Brodie. I didn’t know. You seem to have got on pretty well without it so far.
Mary. O shame on you! shame on you!
Brodie. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I hope so. For you’ll never have it… Mary! … I hate to see you look like that. If I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it. But I have said all; every word is spoken; there’s the end.
Mary. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation; and I’ll have it.
Brodie. Isn’t my “No” enough, Mary?
Mary. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot be, enough for him. He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me his happiness is in my hands – poor hands, but they shall not fail him, if my poor heart should break! If he has chosen and set his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I dare you to leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts – until you prove that this is good and right.
Brodie. Good and right? They are strange words, Mary. I mind the time when it was good and right to be your father’s daughter and your brother’s sister… Now!..
Mary. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My father, Walter says, shall live and die with us. He shall only have gained another son. And you – you know what he thinks of you; you know what I would do for you.
Brodie. Give him up.
Mary. I have told you: not without a reason.
Brodie. You must.
Mary. I will not.
Brodie. What if I told you that you could only compass your happiness and his at the price of my ruin?
Mary. Your ruin?
Brodie. Even so.
Mary. Ruin!
Brodie. It has an ugly sound, has it not?
Mary. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done? What have you done?
Brodie. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You must give up this Leslie … and at once. It is to save me.
Mary. I would die for you, dear; you know that. But I cannot be false to him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him.
Brodie. We shall see. Let me take you to your room. Come. And, remember, it is for your brother’s sake. It is to save me.
Mary. I am a true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall not find me wanting. But it is all so sudden … so strange and dreadful! You will give me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and… O my poor Walter! It will break his heart! It will break his heart! (A knock.)
Brodie. You hear!
Mary. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go. It is to save you, is it not? To save you. Walter … Mr. Leslie … O Deacon, Deacon, God forgive you! (She goes out.)
Brodie. Amen. But will He?
SCENE VII
Brodie, Hunt
Hunt (hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?
Brodie. I am he, Mr – ?
Hunt. Hunt, sir: an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.
Brodie. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I serve you?
Hunt. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.
Brodie. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon (we in the office see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn’t tell a gentleman of your experience it’s part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now), it comes to our knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain’t any harm in that. I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking —
Brodie. O, but pardon me, Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private character with you.
Hunt. To be sure you ain’t. (And do I blame you? Not me.) But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great deal of bad company.
Brodie. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you’re driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (He sits, and motions Hunt to do likewise.)
Hunt. I was dead sure of it: and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank you. Now – (consulting pocket-book) – did you ever meet a certain George Smith?
Brodie. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (Hunt nods.) Yes.
Hunt. Bad character?
Brodie. Let us say … disreputable.
Hunt. Any means of livelihood?
Brodie. I really cannot pretend to guess. I have met the creature at cock-fights (which, as you know, are my weakness). Perhaps he bets.
Hunt. (Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that if he don’t – if he ain’t open to any mortal thing – he ain’t the man I mean.) He used to be about with a man called Badger Moore.
Brodie. The boxer?
Hunt. That’s him. Know anything of him?
Brodie. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he sold his backers.
Hunt. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon, the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cock-fights like the rest of us?
Brodie. I have met him in the pit.
Hunt. Well, it’s a pretty sport. I’m as partial to a main as anybody.
Brodie. It’s not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you’ve been dropping a hatful of money lately.
Brodie. You are very good.
Hunt. Four hundred in three months, they tell me.
Brodie. Ah!
Hunt. So they say, sir.
Brodie. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. And you to do the other thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping close myself.
Brodie. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting me. And if there is nothing else (rising) in which I can pretend to serve you…?
Hunt (rising). That’s about all, sir, unless you can put me on to anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I’d try to look in.
Brodie. O come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to you. (A knocking, C.)
Hunt. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (Smith and Moore, without waiting to be answered, open and enter, C. They are well into the room before they observe Hunt.) (Talk of the devil, sir!)
Brodie. What brings you here? (Smith and Moore, confounded by the officer’s presence, slouch together to right of door. Hunt, stopping as he goes out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically. This is supported by Moore with sullen bravado; by Smith with cringing airiness.)
Hunt (digging Smith in the ribs). Why, you are the very parties I was looking for! (He goes out, C.)
SCENE VIII
Brodie, Moore, Smith
Moore. Wot was that cove here about?
Brodie (with folded arms, half-sitting on bench). He was here about you.
Smith (still quite discountenanced). About us? Scissors! And what did you tell him?
Brodie (same attitude). I spoke of you as I have found you. (I told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.) I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest boxer.
Moore. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t he spit it out, I ses.
Brodie. Here are my answers. (Producing purse and dice.) These are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I presume?
Smith. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right bones from the wrong. That’s hall.
Brodie. (What clumsy liars you are!
Smith. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did he think – )
Brodie. What is your errand?
Moore. Business.
Smith. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round – didn’t us, Hump? – and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on.
Brodie. Will you tell me your errand?
Moore. You’re dry, ain’t you?
Brodie. Am I?
Moore. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with us.
Brodie. Is it?
Moore. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to do is to put up the Excise.
Smith. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, and it’s breaking George the gardener’s heart, it is. We really must!
Brodie. Must we?
Moore. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business, I do.
Brodie. That’s lucky. I don’t.
Moore. O, you don’t, don’t you?
Brodie. I do not.
Moore. Then p’raps you’ll tell us wot you thundering well do?
Brodie. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I am blind? I’m the Deacon, am I not? I’ve been your king and your commander. I’ve led you and fed you and thought for you with this head. And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you through and through (I know you like the clock); I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you thought, has money, and won’t do the job. Therefore, you thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll let you pack with a whole skin? By my soul, but I’ve a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more.
Moore (sitting). Now look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I ses to you is, Here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. That’s my motto. Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don’t you? and when one of your plants goes cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck! That’s wot I think of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you.
Brodie. You will?
Moore. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear out? You try it on. I’m a man, I am.
Brodie. This is plain speaking.
Moore. Plain? Wot about your father as can’t walk? Wot about your fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain’t, you let me know, and I’ll spit it out so as it’ll raise the roof of this ’ere ken. Plain! I’m that cove’s master, and I’ll make it plain enough for him.
Brodie. What do you want of me?
Moore. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie’s is wot I want of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. That’s wot I want of you, and wot I thundering well mean to get.
Brodie. Damn you!
Moore. Amen. But you’ve got your orders.
Brodie (with pistol). Orders? hey? orders?
Smith (between them). Deacon, Deacon! – Badger, are you mad?
Moore. Muck! That’s my motto. Wot I ses is, Has he got his orders or has he not? That’s wot’s the matter with him.
Smith. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I’m only a light weight, and you fight at twelve stone ten, but I’m damned if I’m going to stand still and see you hitting a pal when he’s down.
Moore. Muck! That’s wot I think of you.
Smith. He’s a cut above us, ain’t he? He never sold his backers, did he? We couldn’t have done without him, could we? You dry up about his old man, and his sister; and don’t go on hitting a pal when he’s knocked out of time and cannot hit back, for, damme, I will not stand it.
Moore. Amen to you. But I’m cock of this here thundering walk, and that cove’s got his orders.
Brodie (putting pistol on bench). I give in. I will do your work for you once more. Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. If that is enough, if you have no more … orders, you may count it as done.
Moore. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind.
Brodie. I have passed you my word. And now you have said what you came to say, you must go. I have business here; but two hours hence I am at your … orders. Where shall I await you?
Moore. What about that woman’s place of yours?
Brodie. Your will is my law.
Moore. That’s good enough. Now, Dook.
Smith. Bye-bye, my William. Don’t forget.
SCENE IX
Brodie. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it either. It must be done: Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me, and now … I’ve licked their boots, have I? I’m their man, their tool, their chattel. It’s the bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I sound with my foot, and there’s nothing underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you’ve been travelling all these years; and it’s for this that you learned French! The gallows … God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. There’s a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How’s a man to die with a night-cap on? I’ve done with this. Over yonder, across the great ocean, is a new land, with new characters, and perhaps new lives. The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it’s a place where men live gladly; and the Deacon himself can walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born child. It must be good to see day again and not to fear; it must be good to be one’s self with all men. Happy like a child, wise like a man, free like God’s angels … should I work these hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and good again. And it’s only over the sea! O man, you have been blind, and now your eyes are opened. It was half a life’s nightmare, and now you are awake. Up, Deacon, up, it’s hope that’s at the window! Mary! Mary! Mary!
SCENE X
Brodie, Mary, Old Brodie
Brodie has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter Mary, by the side door, pushing her father’s chair. She is supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before Brodie is aware of her. He starts up and runs to her.
Brodie. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I… O, kiss me, Mary! give me a kiss for my good news.
Mary. Good news, Will? Is it changed?
Brodie. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour! It was night, and now it’s broad day, and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as God sees me, I’ll have made you happy. O you may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon’s not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I’ve done nothing for you yet; but, please God, I’ll make your life a life of gold; and wherever I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll know it, by heaven! and bless me.
Mary. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with us.
Old Brodie. My son – Deacon – better man than I was.
Brodie. O, for God’s sake, hear him!
Mary. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I … so am I.
Brodie. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments.
Mary. I want no oaths, Will.
Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move mountains.
Old Brodie. A wise son maketh – maketh —
Brodie. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man!
