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.

  SCENE VII

  To these, Moore

  Moore. Are you coming?

  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.

  END OF THE THIRD ACT

  ACT IV

  TABLEAU VII

  The Robbery

  The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel’s Court. At the back, L.C., an archway 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 Court: “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

  Smith, Moore, Ainslie

  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 back’s fair broke.

  Moore. O, muck! Hand out them pieces.

  Smith. All right, Humptious! (To Ainslie.) 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, crowbars, 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 centre-bit.

  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 bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ‘art was far away; and 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 crouch 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

  Moore. Waiting for you, Deacon.

  Brodie. I see. Everything ready?

  Smith. All a-growing and a-blowing.

  Brodie. Give me the light. (Briefly examines tools and door with bull’s-eye.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie, take the glim. 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 centre-bit.

  Smith. Right. (Work continues. Ainslie drops lantern.)

  Brodie. Curse you! (Throttling and kicking him.) You shake, and you shake, and you can’t even hold a light for your betters. Hey?

  Ainslie. Eh, Deacon, Deacon....

  Smith. Now, Ghost! (With lantern.)

  Brodie. ‘St, Moore!

  Moore. Wot’s the row?

  Brodie. Take you the light.

  Moore (to Ainslie). Wo’ j’ yer shakin’ 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 past, I’ll break your back. (Ainslie retires.) Steady with the light. (At work with centre-bit.) Hand up number four, George. (At work with picklock.) That has it.

  Smith. Well done, our side.

  Brodie. Now the crowbar! (At work.) That’s 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.) Voilà ! 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-là !

  SCENE III

  Ainslie; afterwards Brodie; afterwards Hunt and Officers

  Ainslie. 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 repeated.) 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 and Officers.)

  Hunt. Birds caught?

  Ainslie. They’re a’ ben the house, mister.

  Hunt. All three?

  Ainslie. The haill set, mister.

  Brodie. Liar!

  Hunt. Mum, lads, and follow me. (Exit, with his men, into office. Brodie seen with dagger.)

  Hunt (within). In the King’s name!

  Moore (within). Muck!

  Smith (within). Go it, Badger.

  Hunt (within). 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 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?

  Smith. You ought to know G.S. better by this time, Jerry.

  Hunt. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself. Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! 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 compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I’ll bring the Deacon round myself.

  END OF THE FOURTH ACT

  ACT V

  TABLEAU VIII

  The Open Door

  The Stage represents the Deacon’s room, as in Tableau I. Firelight. Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. Cries without of “Willie!” “Mr. Brodie!” The door is burst open

  SCENE I

  Doctor, Mary, a Maidservant with lights

  Doctor. The apartment is unoccupied.

  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.

  Doctor. Well, we have acted for the best.

  Servant. Sir, I 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. I 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 out 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

  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 hae the Deacon’s een, and for the love of the dear kind Lord, let’s in and hae a word wi’ him ere it be 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?

  Jean. I’ll be the best frien’ ‘at ever he had; for, O 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 believe 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, I tell you ... dead!

  Jean. It’s mebbe just as weel.

  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. (To 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.

  SCENE III

  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 may be 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. O, 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!... My God!

  Leslie. My wife, my wife!

  Mary. No, no! Keep away from me. Don’t touch me. I’m not fit ... not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the worst. Tell me the worst at once.

  Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, 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?

  Leslie. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does it consist? Is it in denying me 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 gaol 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, no more!

  Leslie. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must kneel ... I that must kneel to you.