Sym. Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about it from me. (Aside.) A thousand a year! I have endeavoured, but in vain, to woo Fortune for fifty-six years, but she smiles upon me at last!—she smiles upon me at last!
[Exit Symperson into cottage.
Ch. At length my hopes are to be crowned! Oh, my own—my own—the hope of my heart—my love—my life!
Enter Belvawney, who has overheard these words.
Bel. Cheviot! Whom are you apostrophizing in those terms? You’ve been at it again, I see!
Ch. Belvawney, that apostrophe was private; I decline to admit you to my confidence.
Bel. Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone of defiance? A week ago I had but to express a wish, to have it obeyed as a matter of course.
Ch. Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exercised over me by your extraordinary eyes, you could do with me as you would. It would be affectation to deny it; your eyes withered my will; they paralyzed my volition. They were strange and lurid eyes, and I bowed to them. Those eyes were my Fate—my Destiny—my unerring Must—my inevitable Shall. That time has gone—for ever!
Bel. Alas for the days that are past and the good that came and went with them!
Ch. Weep for them if you will. I cannot weep with you, for I loved them not. But, as you say, they are past. The light that lit up those eyes is extinct—their fire has died out—their soul has fled. They are no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two poached eggs.