"But—but are they married—are they married? how do you know it? can't we catch 'em first, ey? what!"
"How do I know it? that's a good un now, father, when I had it under your hand to give the girl away myself instead of you. Do you mean to say you didn't write that letter?"
"Boy, I tell you, I've written nothing—I know nothing; you speak in riddles."
"Well then, governor, if I do, I'll to guess 'em: I begin to see how it was all brought about—but they did it cleverly too, and were quite too many for me. Only listen: that fellow Clements, ay, and Miss Maria too (artful minx, I know her), must have forged a letter as if from you to get poor fools, me and my mother, to see 'em spliced, while you were tooling to Yorkshire."
"Impossible—ey? what? I'll—I'll—I'll—"
"Now, governor, don't stand there doing nothing but denying all I say; only you go yourself, and ask my mother if she didn't see the letter—if they didn't marry upon it, and if that precious sister of mine doesn't richly deserve every thing she'll some day get from her affectionate, her excellent, her ill-used father?"
Iago's self, or his master, smooth-tongued Belial, could not have managed matters better.
The incredulous knight, scarcely able to discover how far it might not still be all a joke, especially after his Yorkshire expedition, rushed up to Lady Dillaway; on her usual sofa, quietly knitting, and thinking of her Maria's second day of happiness.
"So, ma'am—ey? what? is it true? are they married? is it true? married—ey? what?"
"Certainly, Thomas, they were only too glad, and I will add, so was I, to get your kind—"