A fit of coughing here interrupted the choleric old gentleman, in the midst of which our hero, with much humility of demeanour, many apologies, and protestations of innocence of intention to injure, picked up the old gentleman’s hat, assisted him to brush his clothes with a bunch of ferns, and in various other ways sought to pacify him.
The old man grumbled a good deal at first, but was finally so far mollified as to say less testily, while he put on his hat, “I warrant me, young man, you are come on some wild-goose chase to this out-o’-the-way region of the land in search of the picturesque—eh?—a dauber on canvas?”
“No, sir,” replied the youth, “I profess not to wield the pencil or brush, although I admit to having made feeble efforts as an amateur. The scalpel is more to my taste, and my object in coming here is to visit a relative. I am on my way to St. Just; but, having wandered somewhat out of my road, have been obliged to strike into bypaths, as you see.”
“As I see, young man!—yes, and as I feel,” replied the old gentleman, with some remains of asperity.
“I have already expressed regret for the mischance that has befallen you,” said the youth in grey somewhat sternly, for his impulsive spirit fired a little at the continued ill-humour of the old gentleman. “Perhaps you will return good for evil by pointing out the way to St. Just. May I venture to ask this favour of you?”
“You may venture, and you have ventured; and it is my belief, young man, that you’ll venture many a thing before this world has done with you; however, as you are a stranger in these parts, and have expressed due penitence for your misdeed, though I more than half doubt your sincerity, I can do no less than point out the road to St. Just, whither I will accompany you at least part of the way; and, young sir, as you have taken pretty free liberty with me this morning, may I take the liberty of asking you the name of your relative in St. Just? I am well acquainted with most of the inhabitants of that town.”
“Certainly,” replied the youth. “The gentleman whom I am going to visit is my uncle. His name is Donnithorne.”
“What! Tom Donnithorne?” exclaimed the old gentleman, in a tone of surprise, as he darted a keen glance from under his bushy eyebrows at his companion. “Hah! then from that fact I gather that you are Oliver Trembath, the young doctor whom he has been expecting the last day or two. H’m—so old Tom Donnithorne is your uncle, is he?”
The youth in grey did not relish the free and easy, not to say patronising, tone of his companion, and felt inclined to give a sharp answer, but he restrained his feelings and replied,—“He is, and you are correct in your supposition regarding myself. Do you happen to know my uncle personally?”
“Know him personally!” cried the old gentleman with a sardonic laugh; “Oh yes, I know him intimately—intimately; some people say he’s a very good fellow.”