“Oh, doon’t say so, Mr. Henry!” exclaimed the poor man, clasping his hands entreatingly.
“It’s very true though,” said Henry, gaining courage.
“It’s not true!” returned David, with sudden fierceness, “or, if it is,” he added, changing again to accents of despair; “there’s nay body in this warld that kens whare she is!” He paused; then, with forced composure subjoined, “She gade oot o’ the hoose, the morn after yee gade away, and she’s niver cam back syne.”
“She is gone off with some sweetheart, I suppose,” replied Henry, affecting carelessness.
“For sham o’ yeersel!” cried David, “for sham o’ yeersel; and she at the doon-lying wid yeer bairn! Wha was she gang wid bit wid you? Ye ken weel enew, she was nane o’ that sort, or ye wad niver have been forced til mack her yeer wife.”
“She’s no wife of mine, man,” interrupted Henry, “and don’t dare to say so!”
“I will dare,” returned David, “til spack the truth.” Henry switched his boots with his whip, and whistled a tune. David continued—“She is your wife, Mr. St. Aubin; and your lawfu’ wife, afoor heaven, and lawfu’ witnesses beside.”
“Neither you, nor your false witnesses, can say that you saw us married,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh.
“If we didna, we heard yee,” replied poor David.