Ch. Oh, those eyes!
Bel. I’m the only witness left. I can prove your marriage, if I like; but you can’t. Ha! ha! ha! ha! (with Satanic laugh.) It’s a most painful and unfortunate situation for you; and, believe me, dear Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy.
[Exit Belvawney.
Ch. This is appalling; simply appalling! The cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I’m a married man! More than that, my honeymoon’s past, and I never knew it! Stop a moment, though. The bride can’t be found; the cottage is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated; what proof is there that such a marriage ever took place? There’s only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn’t a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something; uncorroborated, it is worthless. I’ll risk it. He can do nothing; the bride is nowhere; the cottagers are in Patagonia, and——
[At this moment Mrs. Macfarlane, Maggie, and Angus appear at the back. They stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion to Cheviot (whom they do not recognize). He stares aghast at them for a moment, then staggers back to sofa.
Ch. The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that’s infernal!
Mrs. Mac. Gude day, sir. We’ve just ca’d to see ye about the advertisement. (Producing paper.)
Ch. I don’t know you—I don’t know you. Go away.
[Cheviot buries his head in a newspaper, and pretends to read on sofa.
Mag. Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca’ on ye this day at eleven o’clock, and sae we’ve coom a’ the way fra Dumfries to see ye.