At four o’clock to-morrow? At my house? (To Mary.)
Mary. As soon as church is done. (Exit Mary.)
Lawson. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.
Brodie. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies – you know our failings! (A bad temper and a humour of privacy.)
Lawson. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak’ a doch-an-dorach, William; superflua non nocent, as we say; an extra dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.
Brodie (with bottle and glasses). Here’s your old friend, Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. O no, thank you, not any for me. You strong people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must always live a bit of a hermit’s life.
Lawson. ’Od, man, that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind and body. Mr. Leslie, here’s to you, sir. ’Od, it’s harder to end than to begin with stuff like that.
Smith. Is the king of the castle in, please?
Lawson (aside). Lord’s sake, it’s Smith!
Brodie (to Smith). I beg your pardon?
Smith. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir?
Brodie. What do you want with him, my man?
Smith. I’ve a message for him, sir; a job of work, sir.
Brodie (to Smith; referring to Jean). And who is this?
Jean. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence, I hope, sir.
Lawson. It’s just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd. It’ll be for the rent?
Jean. Just that, sir.
Lawson. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road to my office wi’ ye. (Exeunt Brodie, Lawson, Leslie, C.)
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 o’ 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.)
Smith. Is he alive?
Jean. I think there’s something wrong with him.
Smith. 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 variegated. 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.
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 gentleman?
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 Wyndheid; 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.)
Smith (in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (Going with attempted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.
Lawson (from the door). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.
Jean. That’s
