Bel. That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.
Miss T. (after a pause). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude—uncared for, unloved, and alone!
[Exit Miss Treherne into cottage.
Bel. There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed! Oh, for the gift of Cheviot’s airy badinage—oh, for his skill in weaving a net about the hearts of women! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before the dreadful Major learns our flight! Why not? We are in Scotland. Methinks I’ve heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country, by merely making declaration to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares.
Enter Maggie, from cottage.
Mag. Will ye walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney? There’s a room ready for ye, kind sir, and ye’re heartily welcome to it.
Bel. It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden.
Mag. Oh, sir! you do not mean any harm towards a puir, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie?
Bel. Harm! No: of course, I don’t. What do you mean?