“Yes; but what proof? what proof?”
“I’s gwine to tell yer, Marse Tudor, ’deed I is. Yer ’member dat mornin’ w’en yer come ’quirin’ at my cabin ’bout Miss Lilif?”
“Yes, yes; you asked me that question some time back.”
“So I did, Marse Tudor; an’ I ax ob yer pardon fo’ axin’ it ag’in. It wor on’y to ’mind yer of de day, marse. Yer ’member as I tole yer how de young mist’ess had gib dat po’ gal lots ob wittles an’ drink, an’ close, an’ money, fo’ herse’f an’ me, too? Yer ’member dat, young marse?”
“I do.”
“An’ likewise as I tole yer how her man come in unexpected dat same night, an’ eat up all de good wittles, and drunk up all de good licker, an’ tuk all de money, an’ ’pelled her to go ’way ’long o’ him dat same night?”
“Yes, I remember. Go on.”
“Well, Marse Tudor, I tole yer all dat; but I didn’t fink ob tellin’ ob yer all de little trifles w’ich ’peared no ’count—sich as he makin’ ob her dress herse’f in her close to go ’long ob him—dose berry close wot Miss Lilif gib her—dat warm cashy gown, an’ de nice unnerclose, an’ de pooty French boots, an’ de little hat—all wot was tied up in de bundle—did he make her take out an’ put on to go ’long ob him genteel. No, I didn’t tell yer dat; nor likewise as how she ’beyed him in ’spect ob de close, but ’posed him when he tuk ebberyfin’ out’n de house an’ lef me nuffin’. An’ dey bofe went ’way quarrelin’—quarrelin’ werry bitter, an’ I yeard ’em at it till dey got out ob yearin’—an’ next minit I heerd an awful screech, an’ den anoder, an’ anoder. An’ I say: ‘Dere, now,’ I say, ‘he’s beatin’ ob her, de brute!’ An’ den dere was silence. An’ I nebber t’ought no wuss ob it, dan it wor bad ’nuff, but not so uncommon as to keep me ’wake.”
Old Adah paused for breath, while Hereward waited for her next words with intense anxiety. At length she resumed:
“I nebber tole yer ’bout dese las’ mentioned fings, ’caze I t’ought den dey was on’y trifles; but, Lor’, who kin tell wot is trifles, or wot trifles is gwine to mount up to ’fo’ dey’s done wid yer? It wor dem berry trifles, w’ich I t’ought ob no ’count, as would indentified dem ’mains wot was foun’ in de crik for doze ob dat po’ young gal, ef on’y I hed been sent fer to edify de Cow’s Quest. Dere! My Lor’! now what is I done?” cried the old woman, rising in alarm and peering into the face of the young master, who had fallen back into his seat in what seemed to be a dead swoon.