“Thou hast played the knave with me, Meg,” he said, shaking his head, and smiling at the same time, “and thou knowest in what manner; but I think thou art true church-woman, and didst only act from silly womanish fancy of keeping fair with these roguish Roundheads. But let me have no more of this. I had rather Martindale Castle were again rent by their bullets, than receive any of the knaves in the way of friendship--I always except Ralph Bridgenorth of the Hall, if he should come to his senses again.” Lady Peveril was here under the necessity of explaining what she had heard of Master Bridgenorth--the disappearance of the governante with his daughter, and placed Bridgenorth’s letter in his hand. Sir Geoffrey shook his head at first, and then laughed extremely at the idea that there was some little love-intrigue between Bridgenorth and Mistress Deborah. “It is the true end of a dissenter,” he said, “to marry his own maid-servant, or some other person’s. Deborah is a good likely wench, and on the merrier side of thirty, as I should think.” “Nay, nay,” said the Lady Peveril, “you are as uncharitable as Ellesmere--I believe it but to be affection to his child.” “Pshaw! pshaw!” answered the Knight, “women are eternally thinking of children; but among men, dame, many one carresses the infant that he may kiss the child’s maid; and where’s the wonder or the harm either, if Bridgenorth should marry the wench? Her father is a substantial yeoman; his family has had the same farm since Bosworthfield--as good a pedigree as that of the great-grandson of a Chesterfield brewer, I trow. But let us hear what he says for himself--I shall spell it out if there is any roguery in the letter about love and liking, though it might escape your innocence, Dame Margaret.”