Robert Stevenson - The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

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!

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 h article 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. Mum it is, Jean!

Hunt. When you’ve done dancing, George! ( To Jean.) It ain’t a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. “Will you blow the gaff?” is perhaps more tenderer.

Jean. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin’ yoursel’.

Hunt ( to Jean). I can’t waste time on you, my girl. It’s now or never. Will you turn King’s evidence?

Jean. I think ye’ll have made a mistake, like.

Hunt. Well, I’m…! ( Separating them. ) (No, not yet; don’t push me.) George’s turn now. ( To George.) George, I’ve a warrant in my pocket.

Smith. As per usual, Jerry?

Hunt. Now I want King’s evidence.

Smith. Ah! so you came a cropper with her , Jerry. Pride had a fall.

Hunt. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.

Smith. A free pardon, Jerry?

Hunt. Don’t I tell you so?

Smith. And fifty down? fifty?

Hunt. On the nail.

Smith. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?

Hunt. I suppose you mean you’re a born idiot?

Smith. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my heart. I used to look up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of boyhood’s dreams gone pop! ( Enter Moore , L. )

Hunt ( to both ). Come, then, I’ll take the pair, and be damned to you. Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don’t care for you commoners, it’s the Deacon I want.

Jean ( looking off stolidly ). I think the kirks are scalin’. There seems to be mair people in the streets.

Hunt. O, that’s the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman, and your fancy man as well?

Jean. I daur say ye would like fine to, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to you. ( Going. )