‘Meaning me, ma’am?’ he asked, coolly.

‘Yes—­certainly you.  I did, uncle,’ answered I.

’And where was it, my dear?  Not at Knowl, I fancy.  Poor dear Austin did not trouble me or mine much with his hospitalities.’

This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead brother and benefactor; but at the moment I was too much engaged upon the one point to observe it.

’I met’—­I could not say my cousin—­’I met him, uncle—­your son—­that young gentleman—­I saw him, I should say, at Church Scarsdale, and afterwards with some other persons in the warren at Knowl.  It was the night our gamekeeper was beaten.’

‘Well, Dudley, what do you say to that?’ asked Uncle Silas.

’I never was at them places, so help me.  I don’t know where they be; and I never set eyes on the young lady before, as I hope to be saved, in all my days,’ said he, with a countenance so unchanged and an air so confident that I began to think I must be the dupe of one of those strange resemblances which have been known to lead to positive identification in the witness-box, afterwards proved to be utterly mistaken.

’You look so—­so uncomfortable, Maud, at the idea of having seen him before, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his denial.  There was plainly something disagreeable; but you see as respects him it is a total mistake.  My boy was always a truth-telling fellow—­you may rely implicitly on what he says.  You were not at those places?’

‘I wish I may——­,’ began the ingenuous youth, with increased vehemence.

’There, there—­that will do; your honour and word as a gentleman—­and that you are, though a poor one—­will quite satisfy your cousin Maud.  Am I right, my dear?  I do assure you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to say the thing that was not.’

So Mr. Dudley Ruthyn began, not to curse, but to swear, in the prescribed form, that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, ’since I was weaned, by——­’

‘That’s enough—­now shake hands, if you won’t kiss, like cousins,’ interrupted my uncle.

And very uncomfortably I did lend him my hand to shake.

’You’ll want some supper, Dudley, so Maud and I will excuse your going.  Good-night, my dear boy,’ and he smiled and waved him from the room.

’That’s as fine a young fellow, I think, as any English father can boast for his son—­true, brave, and kind, and quite an Apollo.  Did you observe how finely proportioned he is, and what exquisite features the fellow has?  He’s rustic and rough, as you see; but a year or two in the militia—­I’ve a promise of a commission for him—­he’s too old for the line—­will form and polish him.  He wants nothing but manner; and I protest when he has had a little drilling of that kind, I do believe he’ll be as pretty a fellow as you’d find in England.’

I listened with amazement.  I could discover nothing but what was disagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such an instance of the blindness of parental partiality was hardly credible.