If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I'll-Ay, who _shall_ stand? There's the rub! And forgiveness, too? There's a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. 'My son, the Deacon . . . !' Eh, God! but there's no fool like an old fool!
(_Becoming conscious of the others_.) Rogues!
SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.
BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.]
Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you-a very-good evening. (_As he goes out_, HUNT, _who has been staggering about in the crowd_, _falls on a settle_, _as about to sleep_.)
ACT-DROP.
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. [Oh 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 prosecution?]
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 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 ains.
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, Jeannie, 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 awful 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, downstairs, 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 aye 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.