The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15. Robert Louis Stevenson
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What about that woman’s place of yours?
Brodie. Your will is my law.
Moore. That’s good enough. Now, Dook.
Smith. Bye-bye, my William. Don’t forget.
Brodie. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it either. It must be done: Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me, and now … I’ve licked their boots, have I? I’m their man, their tool, their chattel. It’s the bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I sound with my foot, and there’s nothing underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you’ve been travelling all these years; and it’s for this that you learned French! The gallows … God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. There’s a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How’s a man to die with a night-cap on? I’ve done with this. Over yonder, across the great ocean, is a new land, with new characters, and perhaps new lives. The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it’s a place where men live gladly; and the Deacon himself can walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born child. It must be good to see day again and not to fear; it must be good to be one’s self with all men. Happy like a child, wise like a man, free like God’s angels … should I work these hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and good again. And it’s only over the sea! O man, you have been blind, and now your eyes are opened. It was half a life’s nightmare, and now you are awake. Up, Deacon, up, it’s hope that’s at the window! Mary! Mary! Mary!
Brodie has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter Mary, by the side door, pushing her father’s chair. She is supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before Brodie is aware of her. He starts up and runs to her.
Brodie. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I… O, kiss me, Mary! give me a kiss for my good news.
Mary. Good news, Will? Is it changed?
Brodie. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour! It was night, and now it’s broad day, and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as God sees me, I’ll have made you happy. O you may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon’s not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I’ve done nothing for you yet; but, please God, I’ll make your life a life of gold; and wherever I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll know it, by heaven! and bless me.
Mary. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with us.
Old Brodie. My son – Deacon – better man than I was.
Brodie. O, for God’s sake, hear him!
Mary. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I … so am I.
Brodie. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments.
Mary. I want no oaths, Will.
Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move mountains.
Old Brodie. A wise son maketh – maketh —
Brodie. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man!
ACT III
TABLEAU V
King’s Evidence
The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh
They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody not there. Smith is hat in hand to Jean; Moore as usual
Moore. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere or ain’t he? Now then. Slink by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s the matter with him.
Jean. He’ll no’ be lang; he’s regular enough, if that was a’.
Moore. I’d regular him; I’d break his back.
Smith. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they, Duchess?
Moore. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is Slink Ainslie.
Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.
Moore. That’s right enough; but I ain’t a-going to stand here all day for him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you that (showing his doubled fist). That’s wot’s the matter with him. (He lurches out, R.)
Smith (critically). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.
Jean. Ay, he’s an impident man.
Smith. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain’t the only one.
Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind.
Smith. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retired to our estates in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry.
Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me?
Smith. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last, Jean, and I shall.
Jean. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it?
Smith. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees, either.
Jean. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.
Smith. I know I ain’t a Scotsman born.
Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just let me be.
Hunt (entering behind, aside). (Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a second chance.)
Smith. But he won’t last, Jean; and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I present!
Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau I). Why, you’re the very parties I was looking for!
Jean. Mercy me!
Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.
Hunt. (Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.) Ain’t it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?
Jean (stolidly). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (Going.) Mr. Smith!
Smith. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (Going.)
Hunt. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have mine. (Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.) Ladies first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (To Jean, aside.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool?
Jean. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.
Smith (interfering). Jean…!
Hunt (keeping him off). Half a tick, George. (To Jean.) Mrs. Watt, I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?
Jean. Whatten kind of a word’ll that be?
Smith.