Czytaj książkę: «The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15», strona 4

Czcionka:

ACT III

TABLEAU V
King’s Evidence

The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh

SCENE I

Jean, Smith, and Moore

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, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they, Duchess?

Moore. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is Slink Ainslie.

Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.

Moore. That’s right enough; but I ain’t a-going 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

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 retired to our estates in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry.

Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me?

Smith. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon’s your man, and 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 Scotsman 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 present!

Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau I). 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 fortune.) Ain’t it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?

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). Half a 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! (To Jean.) It ain’t a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. “Will you blow the gaff?” is perhaps more tenderer.

Jean. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin’ yoursel’.

Hunt (to Jean). I can’t waste time on you, my girl. It’s now or never. Will you turn King’s evidence?

Jean. I think ye’ll have made a mistake, like.

Hunt. Well, I’m…! (Separating them.) (No, not yet; don’t push me.) George’s turn now. (To George.) George, I’ve a warrant in my pocket.

Smith. As per usual, Jerry?

Hunt. Now I want King’s evidence.

Smith. Ah! so you came a cropper with her, Jerry. Pride had a fall.

Hunt. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.

Smith. A free pardon, Jerry?

Hunt. Don’t I tell you so?

Smith. And fifty down? fifty?

Hunt. On the nail.

Smith. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?

Hunt. I suppose you mean you’re a born idiot?

Smith. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my heart. I used to look up to you like a party might to Julius CÃ¦sar. 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 to, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to you. (Going.)

Hunt. George, don’t you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here, and have brains for two.

Smith (going). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you would talk! (They go off together, R.)

SCENE III

Hunt, Moore

Hunt. Half a tick, Badger. You’re a man of parts, you are; you’re solid, you’re a true-born Englishman; you ain’t a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon’s worth to you? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked and no receipts demanded. What do you say? Is it a deal?

Moore (as to himself). Muck! (He goes out, R.)

SCENE IV

Hunt, to whom Ainslie

Hunt (looking after them ruefully). And these were the very parties I was looking for! (Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!) Well, the market price of that ’ere two hundred is a trifle on the decline and fall. (Looking L.) Hullo! (Slapping his thigh.) Send me victorious! It’s King’s evidence on two legs. (Advancing with great cordiality to meet Ainslie, who enters L.) And so your name’s Andrew Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you’re the very party I was looking for. Ain’t it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?

Ainslie. I dinna ken wha ye are, and I’m ill for my bed.

Hunt. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.

Ainslie. They’re nae frien’s o’ mine, mister. I ken naething an’ naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, wulln’t I?

Hunt. We’re going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t. It all depends on how we get along together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you find him, I’m all for peace and quietness myself. That’s my usual game, Andrew, but when I do make a dust I’m considered by my friends to be rather a good hand at it. So don’t you tread upon the worm.

Ainslie. But I’m sayin’ —

Hunt. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently. I’m first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street Runner?

Ainslie. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no.

Hunt. “Aiblins ay an’ 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? (Producing staff.) ’Cos, if so, you’ve only got to cast your eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain’t it? So nice and warm for the winter too. (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 introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All right! anything to oblige.

Ainslie (grovelling). It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions; I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’ the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be a kind gentleman to a puir lad, and me sae weak, and fair rotten wi’ the drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I’m no’ fit to hang. They ca’ me the Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ for ye, wulln’t I? An’ ye’ll can hang the ithers?

Hunt. I thought I hadn’t mistook my man. Now you look here, Andrew Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to hang you fifty times over. But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or won’t you? You blow the gaff, and I’ll pull you through. You don’t, and I’ll scrag 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 very 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, and 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, and 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 askit mair: I did that; I’ll no’ deny it, mister. But Badger kickit me, an’ Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an’ made he’d cut the liver out o’ me, an’ catch fish wi’t. It’s been that way frae the first: an aith an’ a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.

Hunt. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the table, and booze the company 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’s it for?

Ainslie. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the Deacon’s that sair angered wi’ me. I’m to get my orders frae Geordie the nicht.

Hunt. O, you’re to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now look here, Ainslie. You know me. I’m Hunt the Runner: I put Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning; I’ve got you this evening. I mean to wind up with the Deacon. You understand? All right. Then just you listen. I’m going to take these here bracelets off, and send you home to that celebrated bed of yours. Only, as soon as you’ve seen the Dook you come straight round to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal’s, and let me know the Dook’s views. One word, mind, and … cl’k! It’s a bargain?

Ainslie.. Never you fear that. I’ll tak’ my bannet an’ come straucht to ye. Eh God, I’m glad it’s nae mair nor that to start wi’. An’ may the Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness! May the Lord bless ye!

Hunt. You pad the hoof.

Ainslie (going out). An’ so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’ bless, bless ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t I not?

Hunt (solus). You’re a nice young man, Andrew 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

Leslie, Lawson, Mary, seated. Brodie at back, walking between the windows and the strong-box

Lawson. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt.

Leslie. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie’s word; I will wait gladly.

Lawson. I have nothing to say against that.

Brodie (behind Lawson). Nor for it.

Lawson. For it? for it, William? Ye’re perfectly richt there. (To Leslie.) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do better than that.

Mary. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. O, 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 myself 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.

Leslie. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if you please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust in those you love.

Lawson. Weel … ye get gliffs, ye ken.

Leslie. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, I think, in our friends. We are not 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 hame, and had your beauty sleep.

Mary. Do you not come with us?

Lawson. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (Leslie helps Mary on with her cloak, and they say farewell at back. Brodie, for the first time, comes front with Lawson.) Sae ye’ve consented?

Brodie. As you see.

Lawson. Ye’ll can pay it back?

Brodie. I will.

Lawson. And how? That’s what I’m wonderin’ to mysel’.

Brodie. Ay, God knows that.

Mary. Come, Will.

SCENE II

Leslie, Lawson (wrapping up)

Leslie. I wonder what ails Brodie?

Lawson. How should I ken? What should I ken that ails him?

Leslie. He seemed angry even with you.

Lawson (impatient). Hoot awa’!

Leslie. Of course, 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 mysel’ wi’ happiness.

Leslie. Well, I only fancied …

Lawson. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and nonsense. Look at yersel’. Ye look like a ghaist, ye’re white-like, ye’re black aboot the een; and do you find me deavin’ ye wi’ fancies? Or William Brodie either? I’ll say that for him.

Leslie. ’Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I’ve something else on hand. Come, I’ll tell you, 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, Procurator, this is town’s business; this is a municipal affair; I’m a public character. Why? Ah, here’s a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I’m a bit of a party to a robbery.

Lawson. Guid guide us, man, what d’ye mean?

Leslie. You shall hear. A week ago to-night I was passing through this very room without a candle on my way to bed, when … what should I see but a masked man fumbling at that window! How he did the Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the first he’d tried … for he opened it as handily as his own front door.

Lawson. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies!

Leslie. That’s it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. You never saw a thing so daring and adroit.

Lawson. Is that a’? Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for ye. I’m glad it wasna waur.

Leslie. Yes, that’s all plain sailing. But here’s the hitch. Why didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of that.

Lawson. No, man. Why?

Leslie. Aha! There’s the riddle. Will you guess? No?.. I thought I knew the man.

Lawson. What d’ye say?

Leslie. I thought I knew him.

Lawson. Wha was’t?

Leslie. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I 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, and hunting for resemblances until my head goes round. It’s like a puzzle in a dream. Only yesterday I thought I had him. And who d’you think it was?

Lawson. Wha? Wha was’t? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I’m an auld man: dinna forget that.

Leslie. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon my word, it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here I sit, night after night. 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 a 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 (calling). In good time, never fear! (He carefully bolts and chains the door.) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, I wonder? Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It’s the fashion. Out with the lights. (Blows out the candles. The stage is only lighted by the moon through the window.) He is sure to come one night or other. He must come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I know you somewhere. That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the clothes – whose are they? Where have 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.

SCENE IV

Brodie, Leslie

Brodie enters by the window with assurance and ease, closes it silently and proceeds to traverse the room. As he moves, Leslie leaps upon and grapples him.

Leslie. Take off that mask!

Brodie. Hands off!

Leslie. Take off that 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 mask.) Brodie!

Brodie (in the moonlight). Brodie.

Leslie. You … you, Brodie, you!

Brodie. Brodie, sir, Brodie, as you see.

Leslie. What does it mean? What does it mean? My God! Were you here before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are you a thief? Speak, speak, or I’ll kill you.

Brodie. I am a thief.

Leslie. And my friend, my own friend, and … Mary, Mary!.. Deacon, Deacon, for God’s sake, no!

Brodie. God help me!

Leslie. “We Brodies! We Brodies!”

Brodie. Leslie —

Leslie. Stand off! Don’t touch me! You’re a thief!

Brodie. Leslie, Leslie —

Leslie. A thief’s sister! Why are you here? why are you here? Tell me! Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have nothing to say?

Brodie. To say? Not much – God help me! – and commonplace, commonplace like sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I couldn’t retrace it; and … that is all.

Leslie. You have forgot the bad companions!

Brodie. I did forget them. They were there.

Leslie. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you 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 “Wanderin’ Willie,” by way of signal.)

Leslie. What is that?

Brodie. A signal.

Leslie. What does it mean?

Brodie. Danger to me: there is some one coming.

Leslie. Danger to you?

Brodie. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? (A knock at the door.)

Leslie (after a pause). Sit down. (Knocking.)

Brodie. What are you going to do with me?

Leslie. Sit down. (Brodie sits in darkest part of stage. Leslie opens door and admits Lawson. Door open till end of Act.)

SCENE V

Brodie, Lawson, Leslie

Lawson. This is an unco’ time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I couldna bear to think o’ ye sittin’ yer 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 up.)

Lawson. God A’michty! William Brodie!

Leslie. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me.

Lawson. But he gaed awa’ … I dinna see … an’ Lord be guid to us, the window’s open!

Leslie. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie’s.

Brodie (to Lawson). Set a thief to catch a thief. (Passing to Leslie, aside.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (Jean signals again.)

Lawson. I dinna like that singin’ at siccan a time o’ the nicht.

Brodie. I must go.

Lawson. Not one foot o’ ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in guid hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad.

Brodie (aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. There’s a man there will stick at nothing.

Leslie. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we keep him? (Jean appears at the door, and signs to Brodie.)

Lawson. Hoots! this is my trade. That’s a bit o’ “Wanderin’ Willie.” I’ve had it before me in 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

Jean (from the door). Wullie, Wullie!

Lawson. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like yoursel’! Whatten a time o’ nicht is this to come to folks’ doors?

Jean (to Brodie). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!

Brodie. I suppose you know what you’ve done, Jean?

Jean. I had to come, Wullie; he wadna wait another minit. He wad have come himsel’.

Brodie. This is my mistress.

Lawson. William, dinna tell me nae mair.

Brodie. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. That good man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me … yet?

Lawson. No, no, man: not another word.

Brodie (pointing to the window). That is my work. I am the man. Have you drawn the warrant?

Lawson (breaking down). Your father’s son!

Leslie (to Lawson). My good friend! Brodie, you 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 now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second father weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? Ay 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 yoursel’ for us.

Leslie (opening the strong-box and pouring gold upon the table). Take this and go at once.

Brodie. Not that … not the money that I came to steal!

Lawson. Tak’ it, William; I’ll pay him.

Brodie. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. 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.