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 both 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_.)
TABLEAU II.
HUNT THE RUNNER
_The Scene represents the Procurator's Office_.
SCENE I
LAWSON, HUNT
[LAWSON (_entering_). Step your ways in, Officer. (_At wing_.) 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 dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard 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 a himage, 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 primum_. 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 constat de persona_. We canna get a grip o' the delinquents. 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 look into a ken to-night about the Captain, and an 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.
Procurator-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 without 'em!
LAWSON. Ye're vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. I'll send her in till ye.
SCENE II
HUNT (_solus_)
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 they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South! Well, I've worn out a good deal of saddle leather 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 this list of the family party that drop into Mother 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, it's 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