Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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in the lane. He was still busy with this part of the discourse when a heavy step was heard outside.
“There’s my uncle,” exclaimed Rose, springing up.
A moment after the door opened, and in walked the identical irascible old gentleman himself!
If a petrified impersonation of astonishment had been a possibility, Oliver Trembath would, on that occasion, have presented the phenomenon. He sat, or rather lay, extended for at least half a minute with his eyes wide and his mouth partly open, bereft alike of the powers of speech and motion.
“Heyday, young man!” exclaimed the old gentleman, planting his sturdy frame in the middle of the floor as if he meant then and there to demand and exact an ample apology, or to inflict condign and terrible chastisement, for past misdeeds; “you appear to be making yourself quite at home—eh?”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Oliver, leaping up with a look of dismay; “how can I express my—my—but is it, can it be possible that you are Mr Donnithorne—m–my—uncle?”
Oliver’s expression, and the look of amazement on the countenance of Rose Ellis, who could not account for such a strange reception of her newly-found cousin, proved almost too much for the old gentleman, whose eyes had already begun to twinkle.
“Ay, young man, I am Tom Donnithorne, your uncle, the vile, old, smuggling, brandy-loving rascal, who met his respectful nephew on the road to St. Just”—at this point Rose suddenly pressed her hand over her mouth, darted to her own apartment in a distant corner of the house, and there, seated on her little bed, went into what is not inaptly styled fits of laughter—“and who now,” continued the old gentleman, relaxing into a genial smile, and grasping his nephew’s hand, “welcomes Oliver Trembath to his house, with all his heart and soul; there, who will say after that, that old Donnithorne does not know how to return good for evil?”
“But, my dear uncle,” began Oliver, “allow me to explain—”
“Now, now, look at that—kept me hours too late for supper already, and he’s going to take up more time with explanations,” cried the old gentleman, flinging himself on the chair from which Oliver had risen, and wiping his bald pate with a red silk handkerchief. “What can you explain, boy, except that you met an angry old fellow in a lane who called your uncle such hard names that you couldn’t help giving him a bit of your mind—there, there, sit down, sit down.—Hallo!” he shouted, starting up impulsively and thrusting his head into the passage, “Rose, Rose, I say, where are you?—hallo!”
“Coming, uncle—I’m here.”
The words came back like an echo, and in another minute Rose appeared with a much-flushed countenance.
“Come along, lass, let’s have supper without delay. Where is aunty? Rout her out, and tell that jade of a cook that if she don’t dish up in five minutes I’ll—I’ll—. Well, Oliver, talking of explanations, how comes it that you are so late?”
“Because I took the wrong road after leaving you in the lane,” replied the youth, with a significant glance at his uncle, whose eyes were at the moment fixed gravely on the ground.
“The wrong road—eh?” said Mr Donnithorne, looking up with a sly glance, and then laughing. “Well, well, it was only quid pro quo, boy; you put a good deal of unnecessary earth and stones over my head, so I thought it was but fair that I should put a good deal more of the same under your feet, besides giving you the advantage of seeing the Land’s End, which, of course, every youth of intelligence must take a deep interest in beholding. But, sure, a walk thither, and thence to St. Just, could not have detained you so long?”
“Truly no,” replied Oliver; “I had a rencontre—a sort of adventure with fishermen, which—”
“Fishermen!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne in surprise; “are ye sure they were not smugglers—eh?”
“They said they were fishermen, and they looked like such,” replied Oliver; “but my adventure with them, whatever they were, was the cause of my detention, and I can only express my grief that the circumstance has incommoded your household, but, you see, it took some time to beat off the boat’s crew, and then I had to examine a wound and extract—”
“What say you, boy!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, frowning, “beat off a boat’s crew—examine a wound! Why, Rose, Molly, come hither. Here we have a young gallant who hath begun life in the far west in good style; but hold, here comes my excellent friend Captain Dan, who is no friend to the smugglers; he is to sup with us to-night; so we will repress our curiosity till after supper. Let me introduce you, Oliver to my wife, your Aunt Molly, or, if you choose to be respectful, Aunt Mary.”
As he spoke, a fat, fair, motherly-looking lady of about five-and-forty entered the room, greeting her husband with a rebuke, and her nephew with a smile.
“Never mind him, Oliver,” said the good lady; “he is a vile old creature. I have heard all about your meeting with him this forenoon, and only wish I had been there to see it.”
“Listen to that now, Captain Dan,” cried Mr Donnithorne, as the individual addressed entered the room; “my wife calls me—me, a staid, sober man of fifty-five—calls me a vile old creature. Is it not too bad? really one gets no credit nowadays for devoting oneself entirely to one’s better half; but I forget: allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Oliver Trembath, just come from one of the Northern Universities to fight the smugglers of St. Just—of which more anon. Oliver, Captain Hoskin of Botallack, better known as Captain Dan. Now, sit down and let’s have a bit of supper.”
With hospitable urgency Mr Donnithorne and his good dame pressed their guests to do justice to the fare set before them, and, during the course of the meal, the former kept up a running fire of question, comment, and reply on every conceivable subject, so that his auditors required to do little more than eat and listen. After supper, however, and when tumblers and glasses were being put down, he gave the others an opportunity of leading the conversation.
“Now, Oliver,” he said, “fill your glass and let us hear your adventures. What will you have—brandy, gin, or rum? My friend, Captain Dan here, is one of those remarkable men who don’t drink anything stronger than ginger-beer. Of course you won’t join him.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver. “If you will allow me, I will join your good lady in a glass of wine. Permit me, Aunt Mary, to fill—”
“No, I thank you, Oliver,” said Mrs Donnithorne good-humouredly but firmly, “I side with Captain Dan; but I’ll be glad to see you fill your own.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, “Molly’s sure to side with the opponent of her lawful lord, no matter who or what he be. Fill your own glass, boy, with what you like—cold water, an it please you—and let us drink the good old Cornish toast, ‘Fish, tin, and copper,’ our three staples, Oliver—the bone, muscle, and fat of the county.”
“Fish, tin, and copper,” echoed Captain Dan.
“In good sooth,” continued Mr Donnithorne, “I have often thought of turning teetotaller myself, but feared to do so lest my wife should take to drinking, just out of opposition. However, let that pass—and now, Oliver, open thy mouth, lad, and relate those surprising adventures of which you have given me a hint.”
“Indeed, uncle, I do not say they are very surprising, although, doubtless, somewhat new to one who has been bred, if not born, in comparatively quiet regions of the earth.”
Here Oliver related circumstantially to his wondering auditors the events which befell him after the time when he left his uncle in the lane—being interrupted only with an occasional exclamation—until he reached the part when he knocked down the man who had rescued him from the waves, when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him with an uncontrollable burst.
“Ha!” shouted the old gentleman; “what! knocked down the man who saved your life, nephew? Fie, fie! But you have not told us his name yet. What was it?”
“His comrades called him Jim, as I have said; and I think that he once referred to himself as Jim Cuttance, or something