Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  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, crow-bars, 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 centrebit.

  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 centrebit.

  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 pass, I’ll break your back. (Ainslie retires.) Steady with the light. (At work with centrebit.) Hand up number four, George. (At work with picklock.) That has it.

  Smith. Well done our side.

  Brodie. Now the crow bar! (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 hale 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 awful. (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.

  Act-Drop

  ACT V.

  TABLEAU VIII. The Open Door

  The Stage represents the Deacon’s room, as in Tableau I. Fire light. 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 e’en, 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 believed 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, that 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 . . . I 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 jail 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.

  Mary. Dearest! . . . Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him?

  Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come.

  SCENE IV

  After a pause, Brodie, through the window

  Brodie. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this time — near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. (He lights the candles.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after all? (He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve a tongue, and you’ve a head, and you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (He takes off his coat, takes out the dagger, and with a gesture of striking) Home! He fell without a sob. ‘He breaketh them against the bosses of his buckler!’ (Lays the dagger on the table.) Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that’s your life! . . . your alibi, your alibi. (He takes up a candle and turns towards the door.) O! . . . Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open!

  SCENE V

  Brodie, Mary.

  Brodie. Did you open the door?

  Mary. I did.

  Brodie. You . . . you opened the door?

  Mary. I d
id open it

  Brodie. Were you . . . alone?

  Mary. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor.

  Brodie. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor?

  Mary. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been?

  Brodie. Your father is dead. O yes! He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It’s strange. I bolted it.

  Mary. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. He had to, had he not?

  Brodie. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced it? He?

  Mary. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been in any harm, any danger?

  Brodie. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (Clutching the table. Then, recovering as from a dream.) Death? Did you say my father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was!

  Mary. Dearest, he is in heaven.

  Brodie. Did he suffer?

  Mary. He died like a child. Your name . . . it was his last.

  Brodie. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left how lonely!

  Mary. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I shall not be alone, so you live.

  Brodie. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old master dead, and I! . . . O Mary, try and believe I did not mean that it should come to this; try and believe that I was only weak at first. At first? And now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! You will be quite alone; all your old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The night (with a gesture) . . . it waits for me. You will be quite alone.