“Then it would seem, by your own confession, that you have nothing but hear-say to found your story upon,” wittily retorted master Henry. “You had better send the fellow away, ma’am,” he added; turning, as he hurried out of the room, to Mrs. Montgomery; who, together with Lady L., had hitherto listened in mute astonishment.
“Look yee theere!” cried David: “oh, madam, if my heart was na breaking within my body, I wad knock that young man doon at my feet.”
Mrs. Montgomery was about to speak, probably to reprove such violence.
“Hear me, madam!” he continued with solemn earnestness; “Yee’re a Christian woman, and a mother, I dar say. She was doon-lying, (as yon lady may be,) the neighbours aw kent she was wid bairn, and kent she was wedded and need na’ sham; then, whare wad she gang from her fayther, and her fayther’s hoose, in sic a straight, if she didna gang we him, whose wedded wife she was? Sweetheart, indeed! An the lass had been withoot sham hersel, whare’s the sweetheart at wad tack her awa, an she gone wid another man’s bairn?—Not his wife!—not his wife! An’ he thinks then, does he, to tack a vantage of yon darkling wedding? But I’ll tell you aw aboot it, madam,” he continued, gasping for breath. Then, with the utmost simplicity, he recounted every minute particular of Betsy’s wedding; the roofless ruin, the midnight hour, the fall of the owl, the consequent darkness, &c. &c.; and finding that his relation was listened to with interest, and evident compassion, he advanced a step nearer, grasped Mrs. Montgomery’s arm, with a hand that almost scorched her skin, and, lowering his voice, continued: “Oh, madam! bit what’s to come, is war than all; I went to Whiten like one distract, when Bess was missing; and theere, the ostler folk at ane o’ the Inn-yards, talt me sic a tale aboot a lady and a gentleman, at had been seen late at evening, walking ootby o’ the sands, a lang way aff. And hoo the gentleman, at darkling, cam back by his sel’; and cam ’intle the inn-yard, looking affeared like, and caw’d for a carriage; and hoo he walked up and doon, up and doon, on a bit o’ flag, nay longer nor yon table, aw the time the cattle war putting too; (the folk showed me the bit o’ flag;) and hoo, when ane on them asked him to remember t’ostler, hoo he looked at him, and never spack; and when he asked him again to remember t’ostler, hoo he started like a body at was wakened, and talt him te gang te hell; and gave him nout, and bad the driver drive on. I trembled fray head to foot,” continued David, “and I asked them—but, oh, I feard te hear what they should say in reply—I asked them, if the lass was na wid bairn; and—and—they answered——” Here the poor man became dreadfully agitated; threw up his arms and eyes a moment, then flung himself forward with violence on a table that stood before him, laid his face down on it, and sobbed audibly, uttering, in broken accents, the concluding words:—“They answered, she was wid bairn—it was why they notished her.”
“But what would you infer?” asked Mrs. Montgomery.
“Wha wad it be but Bess!” he replied, still sobbing. “And she did-na cam back,” he recommenced, raising his streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven, as he joined complaint to complaint thus:—“And she’ll niver cam back! and she was aw I had! and I’ll niver see her bonny face more! nor her bairn, that I could ha’ loved for being Betsy’s bairn, if the deevil had been the fayther on’t! He has murdered her i’ the sands!” he added, sternly and suddenly, and he faced round as he spoke, “to be clean rid bathe o’ her and the bairn!”
“Silence! silence, man!” exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery, in a voice of authority. Then, too much shocked and affected to experience, in full, the indignation she must otherwise have felt on hearing Henry thus accused, she added, “For heaven’s sake compose yourself! The horrible suspicion which agitates you in this dreadful manner, it is quite impossible should have any foundation! My nephew, however imprudent he may have been, is much too young a creature to have even thought of an enormity such as this!”
“Then where is Betsy?” said the poor man, looking up in her face.
“I shall insist on Henry’s declaring all he knows about her,” replied Mrs. Montgomery. “Depend upon it, she is perfectly safe in some lodging in Whitehaven, or some cottage in this neighbourhood, perhaps.”
The poor father smiled. It was a ghastly and a momentary smile. “Heaven grant it!” he ejaculated.