Gil. I tell thee, Jenny, I can’t help it; ever as this day comes round, I’m melancholy, spite of reasoning.
Jenny. Well, well; but it’s so long ago.
Gil. But not the less to be remembered—it is now eighteen years this very day, since poor Ambrose Gwinett died the death of a murderer!—I’m sure he was innocent—I’d lay my life on it.
Jenny. But there’s no occasion to be so violent.
Gil. I tell you I can’t think with calmness and speak on it. A fine open hearted youth, and see the end of it. Not one of his accusers but is come to shame. Look at Grayling—Ned Grayling the smith—don’t good folks shake the head, and the little children point at him as he goes by—and then those two churls who scoffed at him, as he was on the road to death—has either of them had a good crop since?—havn’t their cattle died?—their haystacks took fire—with all kinds of mischief falling on them?
Jenny. Yes, and poor Lucy.
Gil. And there again; Lucy, Gwinett’s widow, though almost broken hearted—doesn’t she keep a cheerful face, and look smilingly—whilst her husband’s accusers are ashamed to shew their heads—I say again, I know he was innocent. I know the true murderers will some day be brought to light.
Jenny. I’m sure I hope they will; but in the mean time, we musn’t stand talking about it, or no one will come to the Blake’s Head.
Gil. Well, well; I leave it all to you to day, Jenny: I’m not fit to attend to the customers. Ah! good fortune has been showered upon us—little did we think of seeing ourselves owners of this house; but I’m sure I’d walk out of it with a light heart, if it’s old owner, poor Robert Collins, could but come back to take possession of it—but that’s impossible, so we’ll talk no more of it.
Jenny. Well I declare this is all waste of time—we’ve the house full of customers, and here we’re standing talking as—