Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  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 do 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 (starring 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 Liberton’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 bonny 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.]

  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, altho’ 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? Oh, 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 till 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 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’s come to my 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 cockfights 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 Moor
e 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 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?