The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15. Robert Louis Stevenson
I’m no’ to gie him the coggit dice?
Moore. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass farden?
Ainslie. What’ll like be my share?
Moore. You mucking well leave that to me.
Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a helbow —
Brodie. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George? (Ainslie gives the dice and dice-box to Brodie; and privately a second pair of dice.) Old Fortune’s counters; the bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!
Smith. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.
Brodie. Cool’s the word, Captain – a cool twenty on the first?
Rivers. Done and done. (They play.)
Hunt (aside to Moore, a little drunk). Ain’t that ’ere Scots gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
Moore. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter with you.
Ainslie. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table.
Smith (picking up box). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one and no takers!
Brodie. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
Smith. Hooray, our side! (Pouring out.) George and his pal for ever!
Brodie. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
Rivers. Done!
Brodie. Ten more; money’s made to go. On with you!
Rivers. Sixes.
Brodie. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment! Double or quits?
Rivers. Drive on! Sixes.
Smith. Fire away, brave boys. (To Moore.) It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump!
Brodie. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?
Rivers. A cool forty-five.
Brodie. I play you thrice the lot.
Rivers. Who’s afraid?
Smith. Stand by, Badger!
Rivers. Cinq-ace.
Brodie. My turn now. (He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice.) Aces! Aces again! What’s this? (Picking up dice.) Sold!.. You play false, you hound!
Rivers. You lie!
Brodie. In your teeth. (Overturns table, and goes for him.)
Moore. Here, none o’ that. (They hold him back. Struggle.)
Smith. Hold on, Deacon!
Brodie. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (Stands weighing dice in his hand.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone. (Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (Singing without.) Ha! what’s that?
Ainslie. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And, O Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man —
“Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Should’st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That fear’d Thou mayest be.”
Brodie. I think I’ll go. “My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.” 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 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.
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. (O, 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.)
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 persecution?)
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’ll 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 ain.
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, Jennie, 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 awfu’ 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.