Plays of William E. Henley and R.L. Stevenson Part 14

SCENE X

BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE

(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter MARY, by the side door pus.h.i.+ng 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 la.s.s, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O kiss me, Mary I 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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.

BRODIE. My son-Deacon-better man than I was.

BRODIE. O for G.o.d'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 s.h.i.+p founders you have set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by G.o.d'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.

ACT-DROP

ACT III.

TABLEAU V.

KING'S EVIDENCE

_The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh_.

SCENE I

JEAN, SMITH, _and_ MOORE

(_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, d.u.c.h.ess?

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 agoing 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._)

SCENE II

SMITH _and_ JEAN, _to whom_ HUNT, _and afterwards_ MOORE

SMITH (_critically_). No, d.u.c.h.ess, 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 retire to our estates in the country, shouldn't us? and go to church and be happy, like the n.o.bility and gentry.

JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry me?

SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the 'umble pet.i.tion 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 Scotchman 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.]