“Faith, go ask Sir Robert Whitecraft.  It was he who recommended her; for, on hearing that the maid she had, Ellen Connor, was a Papist, he said he felt uneasy lest she might prevail on my daughter to turn Catholic, and marry Reilly.”

“But do you not know who the young woman that is about your daughter’s person is?  You are, however, a father who loves your child, and I need not ask such a question.  Then, sir, I will tell you who she is.  Sir, she is one of Sir Robert Whitecraft’s cast-off mistresses—­a profligate wanton, who has had a child by him.”

The fiery old squire had been walking to and fro the room, in a state of considerable agitation before—­his mind already charged with the same intelligence, as he had heard it from the gardener (Reilly).  He now threw himself into a chair, and’ putting his hands before his face, muttered out between his fingers—­“D—­n seize the villain!  It is true, then.  Well, never mind, I’ll demand satisfaction for this insult; I am not too old to pull a trigger, or give a thrust yet; but then the cowardly hypocrite won’t fight.  When he has a set of military at his back, and a parcel of unarmed peasants before him, or an unfortunate priest or two, why, he’s a dare devil—­Hector was nothing to him; no, confound me, nor mad Tom Simpson, that wears a sword on each side, and a double case of pistols, to frighten the bailiffs.  The scuundrel of hell!—­to impose on me, and insult my child!”

“Mr. Folliard,” observed the clergyman calmly, “I can indeed scarcely blame your indignation; it is natural; but, at the same time, it is useless and unavailable.  Be cool, and restrain your temper.  Of course, you could not think of bestowing your daughter, in marriage, upon this man.”

“I tell you what, Brown—­I tell you what, my dear friend—–­let the devil, Satan, Beelzebub, or whatever you call him from the pulpit—­I say, let him come here any time he pleases, in his holiday hoofs and horns, tail and all, and he shall have her sooner than Whitecraft.”

Mr. Brown could not help smiling, whilst he said: 

“Of course, you will instantly dismiss this abandoned creature.”

He started up and exclaimed, “Cog’s ’ounds, what am I about?” He instantly rang the bell, and a footman attended.  “John, desire that wench Herbert to come here.”

“Do you mean Miss Herbert, sir?”

“I do—­Miss Herbert—­egad, you’ve hit it; be quick, sirra.”

John bowed and withdrew, and in a few minutes Miss Herbert entered.

“Miss Herbert,” said the squire, “leave this house as fast as the devil can drive you; and he has driven you to some purpose before now; ay, and, I dare say, will again.  I say, then, as fast as he can drive you, pack up your luggage, and begone about your business.  Ill just give you ten minutes to disappear.”

“What’s all this about, master?”

“Master!—­why, curse your brazen impudence, how dare you call me master?  Begone, you jade of perdition.”