"I suppose you have been about the country a good deal?"

"I have, indeed, your haner."

"Did you ever happen to hear of, or to meet with, a person called Reilly?"

"Often, shir; met many o' dem."

"Oh, but I mean the scoundrel called w.i.l.l.y Reilly."

"Is dat him dat left the country, shir?"

"Why, how do you know that he has left the country?"

"I don't know myself, shir; but dat de people does be sayhi' it. Dey say dat himself and wan of our bishops went to France togither"

The squire seemed to breathe more freely as he said, in a low soliloquy, "I'm devilish glad of it; for, after all, it would go against my heart to hang the fellow."

"Well," he said aloud, "so he's gone to France?"

"So de people does be sayin, shir."

"Well, tell me--do you know a gentleman called Sir Robert Whitecraft?"

"Is dat him, shir, dat keeps de misses privately?"

"How do you know that he keeps misses privately?"

"Fwhy, shir, dey say his last one was a Miss Herbert, and dat she had a young one by him, and dat she was an Englishwoman. It isn't ginerally known, I believe, shir, but dey do be sayin' dat she was brought to bed in de cottage of some bad woman named Mary Mahon, dat does be on de lookout to get sweethearts for him."

"There's five thirteens for you, and I wish to G.o.d, my good fellow, that you would allow yourself to be put in better feathers."

"Oh, I expect my pinance will be out before a mont', shir; but, until den, I couldn't take any money."

"Malcomson," said he to the gardener, "I think that fellow's a half fool. I offered him a crown, and also said. I would get him a suit of clothes, and he would not take either; but talked about some silly penance he was undergoing."

"Saul, then, your honor, he may be a fule in ither things, but de'il a ane of him's a fule in the sceence o' b.u.t.tany. As to that penance, it's just some Papistrical nonsense, he has gotten into his head--de'il hae't mair: but sure they're a' full o't--a' o' the same graft, an' a bad one I fear it is."

"Well, I believe so, Malcomson, I believe so. However, if the unfortunate fool is clever, give him good wages."

"Saul, your honor, I'll do him justice; only I think that, anent that penance he speaks o', the hail Papish population, bad as we think them, are suffering penance eneuch, one way or t.i.ther. It disna' beseem a Protestant--that is, a prelatic Government--to persecute ony portion o'

Christian people on, account o' their religion. We have felt and kenned that in Scotland, sairly. I'm no freend to persecution, in ony shape.

But, as to this chiel, I ken naething aboot him, but that he is a gude b.u.t.tanist. Hout, your honor, to be sure I'll gi'e him a fair wage for his skeel and labor."

Malcomson, who was what we have often met, a pedant gardener, saw, however, that the squire's mind was disturbed. In the short conversation which they had, he spoke abruptly, and with a flushed countenance; but he was too shrewd to ask him why he seemed so. It was not, he knew, his business to do so; and as the squire left the garden, to pa.s.s into the house, he looked after him, and exclaimed to himself, "my certie, there's a bee in that man's bonnet."

On going to the drawing-room, the squire found Mr. Brown there, and Helen in tears.

"How!" he exclaimed, "what is this? Helen crying! Why, what's the matter, my child? Brown, have you been scolding her, or reading her a homily to teach her repentance. Confound me, but I know it would teach her patience, at all events. What is the matter?"

"My dear Miss Folliard," said the clergyman, "if you will have the goodness to withdraw, I will explain this shocking business to your father."

"Shocking business! Why, in G.o.d's name, Brown, what has happened? And why is my daughter in tears, I ask again?"

Helen now left the drawing-rooom, and Mr. Brown replied:

"Sir, a circ.u.mstance which, for baseness and diabolical iniquity, is unparalleled in civilized society. I could not pollute your daughter's ears by reciting it in her presence, and besides she is already aware of it."

"Ay, but what is it? Confound you, don't keep me on tenter hooks."

"I shall not do so long, my dear friend. Who do you imagine your daughter's maid--I mean that female attendant upon your pure-minded and virtuous child--is?"

"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 h.e.l.l!--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."

"No more a jade of perdition, sir, than you are; nor I shan't begone till I gets a quarter's wages--I tell you that."

"You shall get whatever's coming to you; not another penny. The house-steward will pay you--begone, I say!"

"No, sir, I shan't begone till I gets a, quarter's salary in full. You broke your agreement with me, wich is wat no man as is a gentleman would do; and you are puttin' me away, too, without no cause."

"Cause, you vagabond! you'll find the cause squalling, I suppose, in Mary Mahon's cottage, somewhere near Sir Robert Whitecraft's; and when you see him, tell him I have a crow to pluck with him. Off, I say."

"Oh, I suppose you mean the love-child I had by him--ha, ha! is that all? But I never had a hankerin' after a rebel and a Papist, which is far worser; and I now tell you you're no gentleman, you nasty old Hirish squire. You brought me here, and Sir Robert sent me here, to watch your daughter. Now, what kind of a young lady must she be as requires watching? I was never watched; because as how I was well conducted, and nothing could ever be laid to my charge but a love-child."