Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 397
George. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?
Jean. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.
Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon of his trade.
Jean. He’ll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C., and stands looking on.)
Smith. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (To Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more varigated. Mrs. Deakin (to Jean), let me introduce you to your dear papa.
Jean. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to behave dacent. [This is no the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.]
Smith. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.
SCENE V
To these, Hunt, C. (He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder.)
Hunt. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?
Smith (pulling himself together). D — n it, Jerry, what do you mean by startling an old customer like that?
Hunt. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for!
Smith. There’s nothing out against me this time?
Hunt. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (To Old Brodie.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman?
Smith. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship! . . . I say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for church.
Hunt. Lady, George?
Smith. It’s a — yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.
Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?
Jean (unmuffling). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me.
Hunt. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.]
George (in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (Going with attempted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.
SCENE VI
To these, C, Brodie and Lawson (greatcoat, muffler, lantern).
Lawson (from the door). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.
Jean. That’s the Fiscal himsel’.
Hunt. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?
Lawson. That’s me. Who’ll you be?
Hunt. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.
Lawson. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my office, with me and this guid wife.
Brodie (aside to Jean, as she passes with a curtsey). How dare you be here? (Aloud to Smith.) Wait you here, my man.
Smith. If you please, sir. (Brodie goes out, C.)
SCENE VII
Brodie, Smith.
Brodie. What the devil brings you here?
Smith. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?
[Brodie. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?
Smith. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?]
Brodie. There was my uncle the Procurator —
Smith. The Fiscal? He don’t count.
Brodie. What d’ye mean?
Smith. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy — G. S. and Co.’s celebrated Nantz.
Brodie. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?
Smith. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a wink, and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks.
Brodie. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue? [Allons! It’s enough to cure a man of vice for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith; this is all damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here.
Smith. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.
Brodie. Can’t you pluck him yourself?
Smith. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. [He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. ‘Stand and deliver, stap my vitals!’] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin.
Brodie. Flush?
Smith (mimicking). ‘The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals! and seven demned farmers, by the Lard—’
Brodie. By Gad!
Smith. Good for trade, ain’t it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them there lovely little locks at Leslie’s, and them there bigger and uglier marine stores at the Excise Office . . .
Brodie (impassible). Go on.
Smith. Worse luck! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that maybe you’d like to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant horseman.
Brodie. The old move, I presume? the double set of dice?
Smith. That’s the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and Co.’s own agent and correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You always was a neat hand with the bones, Deakin.
Brodie. The usual terms, I suppose?
Smith. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest for your jolly companions every one. [That’s the way we does it!]
Brodie. Who has the dice?
Smith. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.
Brodie. You mean Ainslie? — We trust that creature too much, Geordie.
Smith. He’s all right, Marquis. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his own mother. Why, he’s no more guile in him than a set of sheep’s trotters.
[Brodie. You think so? Then see he don’t cheat you over the dice, and give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to that; and you may count the Captain as bare as his last grazier.
Smith. The Black Flag for ever! George’ll trot him round to Mother Clarke’s in two twos.] How long’ll you be?
Brodie. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can you find your way out?
Smith. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.
SCENE VIII
Brodie, Old Brodie; to whom, Mary.
Mary. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will. But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell him! But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and ask me questions — or guess — that will be better, guess.
Brodie. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and they won’t wait.
Mary. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little sister?
Brodie. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me with the dad’s chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And to-morrow morning I will hear your news — your good news; it must be good, you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be.
Mary. I hate your business — I hate all business. To think of chairs, and tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden — and cold pieces of money with the King’s ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you won’t? — Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I’m too happy to find fault with you.
Brodie. ‘And me a Deacon,’ as the Procurator would say.
Mary. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you — nor a bit angry neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow morning.
Brodie. All day long to-morrow, if you like.
Mary. Business or none?
Brodie. Business or none, little sister! I’ll make time, I promise you; and there’s another kiss for surety. Come along. (They proceed to push out the chair, L.C.) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given me one of my headaches, and I’m in haste for bed. You’ll be good, won’t you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow morning till I wake?
Mary. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told me sooner, and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along.
(She goes out, pushing chair.)
SCENE IX
Brodie
(He closes, locks, and double-bolts both doors)
Brodie. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! (Goes to clothes-press, and proceeds to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber! (Changing neck-band and ruffles.) Eh God! how still the house is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would the world be? [The city has its vizard on, and we — at night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is!] — How still it is! . . . My father and Mary — Well! the day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have half a life of his own? — not eight hours out of twenty-four? [Eight shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet.] (Takes out money.) Where’s the blunt? I must be cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win; damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little longer! (As he blows out the lights.) The Deacon’s going to bed — the poor sick Deacon! Allons! (Throws up the window, and looks out.) Only the stars to see me! (Addressing the bed.) Lie there, Deacon! sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till morning. (Gets out of the window.)
TABLEAU II. Hunt the Runner
The Scene represents the Procurator’s Office.
SCENE I
Lawson, Hunt
[Lawson (entering). Step your ways in, Officer. (At wing.) Mr. Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’ in wi’ me. Nae news?
A voice without. Naething, sir.
Lawson (sitting). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?]
Hunt. Well, sir, as I was saying, I’ve an English warrant for the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, alias Captain Starlight, now at large within your jurisdiction.
Lawson. That’ll be the highwayman?
Hunt. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s given me a hard hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along the York road, for he’s a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of it for the Border; but he’d a better nag, and was best up in the road; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort of gentleman, and I’m an active man myself. And Sir John Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman, likewise, though he’s blind as a himage, and he desired his compliments to you, [sir, and said that between us he thought we’d do the trick].
Lawson. Ay, he’ll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers, Hunt, and you’ll have your new warrant quam primum. And see here, Hunt, ye’ll aiblins have a while to yoursel’, and an active man, as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We’re sair forfeuchen wi’ our burglaries. Non constat de personâ. We canna get a grip o’ the delinquents. Here is the Hue and Cry. Ye see there is a guid two hundred pounds for ye.
Hunt. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain’t a rich man, and two hundred’s two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a bit of a worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be sure of his walk; so I got one of your Scotch officers — him as was so polite as to show me round to Mr. Brodie’s — to give me full particulars about the ‘ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if what’s a black sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh?
Lawson. Coelum non animum. A just observe.
Hunt. I’ll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can’t kill two birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I’d like to have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her rent.
Lawson. Hunt, that’s a very decent woman.
Hunt. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don’t know what the profession would do without ‘em!
Lawson. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. I’ll send her in till ye.
SCENE II
Hunt (solus)
Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another, and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything’s at a deadlock; and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By jingo, I’ll show them how we do it down South! Well, I’ve worn out a good deal of saddle leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for new breeches if you like.] Let’s have another queer at the list. (Reads.) ‘Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no apparent occupation.’ Badger’s an old friend of mine, ‘George Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.’ G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. ‘Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for reset of theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king’s evidence.’ That’s an acquaintance to make. ‘Jock Hamilton, otherwise Sweepie,’ and so on. [‘Willie M’Glashan,’ hum — yes, and so on, and so on.] Ha! here’s the man I want. ‘William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his own hair; is often at Clarke’s, but seemingly for purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud, clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps low company.’ Now, here’s what I ask myself: here’s this list of the family party that drop into Mother Clarke’s; it’s been in the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I’m the first to cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! why, there’s Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer work they talk about, of course that’s a chalk above Badger and the Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? ‘Purposes of amusement!’ What next? Deacon of the Wrights? and wright in their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, damme, it’s the man’s trade! I’ll look you up, Mr. William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt, I wouldn’t take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that ‘ere two hundred!
SCENE III
Hunt; to him Jean
Hunt. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about Deacon Brodie?
Jean. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a very poor employ for ony gentleman — it sets ill wi’ ony gentleman to cast my shame in my teeth.
Hunt. Lord love you, my dear, that ain’t my line of country. Suppose you’re not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies’ friend [and he’s dead certain to be on your side]. What I can’t get over is this: here’s this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young ‘oman like you — as a cove may say — to take it out on cold potatoes. That’s what I can’t get over, Mrs. Watt. I’m a family man myself; and I can’t get over it.
Jean. And whae said that to ye? They lee’d whatever. I get naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just ken I’ve been the ruin of him!
Hunt. Don’t you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be open-handed and free.
Jean. Weel, sir, and he’s a’ that.
Hunt. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told me — . Well, well, ‘here’s the open ‘and and the ‘appy ‘art.’ And how much, my dear — speaking as a family man — now, how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year?
Jean. What’s your wull?
Hunt. That’s a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.] What’s about the figure?
Jean. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that.
Hunt. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it.
Jean. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.
Hunt. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man —
Jean. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (Curtsies and goes out.)
SCENE IV
Hunt (solus)
Hunt. Ah! that’s it, is it? ‘My fancy man’s my ‘ole delight,’ as we say in Bow Street. But which is the fancy man? George the Dock, or William the Deacon? One or both? (He winks solemnly.) Well, Jerry, my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that ‘ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.
