Plays of Henley and R.L. Stevenson | Page 7

LAWSON, LESLIE, C.)
SCENE IV
SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE.
SMITH (BOWING THEM OUT). Your humble and most devoted
servant, George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And
this is the style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (AT THE MIRROR.) In that
case George's mother bids him bind his hair. (KISSES HIS HAND.)
My dearest Duchess, - (TO JEAN.) I say, Jean, there's a good deal of
difference between this sort of thing and the way we does it in
Libberton's Wynd.
JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?
SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on this poor but

honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of
his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like
these. He didn't know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a
man? Try a man that is.
JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o' that sort of talk
frae you. And what kind o' a man are you to even yoursel' to the likes o'
him? He's a gentleman.
SMITH. Ah, ain't he just! And don't he live up to it? I say, Jean, feel of
this chair.
JEAN. My! look at yon bed!
SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!
JEAN. What a expense!
SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs.
Watt. [(SINGS) -
'Says Bacchus to Venus, There's brandy between us, And the cradle of
love is the bowl, the bowl!']
JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.
SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and
spittoons at Mother Clarke's; but ah, George, you was born for a higher
spear! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't.
(SEEING OLD BRODIE FOR THE FIRST TIME.) Hullo! it's a man!
JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (THEY GO TO LOOK AT HIM, THEIR
BACKS TO THE DOOR.)
GEORGE. Is he alive?
JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him.
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