Chapter 7

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.