“Oh, yes, I grant all that,” said Leslie, hurriedly; “but there was the vein of natural sin within.”
“Natural nonsense, sir!” cried Uncle Luke, angrily. “How dare you! A holier, truer woman never breathed.”
“Till that scoundrel got hold of her and cursed her life,” groaned Leslie. “Yes, trample on me. I suppose I deserve it.”
“Yes,” cried the old man, “if only for daring to judge her, when I tell you, that with all my knowledge of her and her life, I dare not. No, my lad, I’m going to sleep on it, and in the morning see if I can’t find out the end of the thread, of the clue which will lead us to the truth.”
“There is no need,” groaned Leslie. “We know the truth.”
“And don’t even know who this man is. No, indeed, we do not know the truth. All right, my lad, I can read your looks. I’m a trusting, blind, old fool, am I? Very well, jealous pate but I warn you, I’m right and you’re wrong.”
“Would to heaven I were! I’d give ten years of my life that it could be proved.”
“Give ten years of nonsense. How generous people are at making gifts of the impossible! But look here, Duncan Leslie, I’ll have you on your knees for this when we have found out the mystery; and what looks so black and blind is as simple as A B C. Trash! bolt with some French adventurer? Our Louy! Rubbish, sir! Everything will be proved by-and-by. She couldn’t do it. Loves her poor old father too well. There, once more take my advice, lie down there and have a nap, and set your brain to work in the sunshine not in the dark.”
“No.”
“Going?”