The Vicar's People

“Poor fool!” snarled the other. “She thinks of nothing else but men.”

“Woman’s nature,” said Geoffrey, “but I suppose it is the privilege of the old to be severe. You are old, you know.”

“Devilish,” said the other. “Ah, boy, when you lean your face on your hand, and can feel your skull easily through your skin, you may take it for granted that you are pretty old.”

“Suppose so,” said Geoffrey. “Going my way? No, I suppose not.”

“How the devil d’you know where I’m going?” cried the old fellow, fiercely. “I am going your way, sir; I am.”

“Come along, then,” said Geoffrey, coolly.

“Where?” said Uncle Paul, who was thrown off his guard.

“I’m going underground.”

“Bah! That’s very clever, I suppose you think. That’s modern sharp, fast wit, is it? I’m going underground when my time comes, sir, like a man, and perhaps that won’t be till after you, sir.”

The old man wiped his face upon his orange bandanna here, and looked fiercer than ever.

“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, laughing outright. “You are all cayenne and gunpowder. Wit be hanged! I said I was going underground, and so I am. I’m going down Horton Friendship mine. Mr Tregenna gave me his card for the manager.”

“Ho!” ejaculated the old gentleman, calming down. “Nice man, Tregenna. Smooth and polished. Make a great friend of him; I would if I were you. He’ll show you how to go to the devil faster than any man I know.”

“I’m afraid I want no teaching, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, gravely. “I say, by the way, whose cottage is that down in the cove about a couple of miles along the cliff?”

“Oh! you’ve been there, have you,” said the old man, chuckling. “You are making some nice acquaintances, boy! Did you see pretty Bess?”

“I saw a fine, handsome-looking lass.”

“That’s she. Did she ill-wish you?”

“Not that I know of. Does she do that sort of thing?” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“Oh, yes!” sneered the old gentleman. “They say she’s a witch, and her father’s as scoundrelly an old wrecker and smuggler as ever breathed. He’s one of your kidney, too. Been a miner.”

“A nice character to give a neighbour,” said Geoffrey.

“Confound him! He’s no neighbour of mine, sir. You’d better get your new friend to go down Horton mine with you.”

“What – Tregenna?”

“No, no; Smuggler Prawle. He knows more about the mines than any one here.”

“Does he?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “Well, perhaps I may ask him some day.”

They were standing just in front of the cottage, and as he spoke Geoffrey glanced upward, to see that Madge Mullion was at the upper window, standing back, but evidently gazing intently down upon him, ready to dart back, though, the moment he raised his eyes; and he went away thinking of his little adventure at Wheal Carnac the previous day, and of how strangely he had become possessed of a secret that might, if it were known, raise him up one, two, if not three, bitter enemies during his stay.

It was a great nuisance, he thought, this bit of knowledge, for his conscience pricked him, and he asked himself whether he ought not to make some communication to Uncle Paul or Mrs Mullion.

“And be called a meddlesome fool for my pains!” he exclaimed angrily. “No; I will not interfere with other people’s business. I have my hands full enough as it is.”

His way out of the little town was over a rough granite-strewn hill, where the wind blew briskly, and the grass and heather seemed to be kept cut down close by the sharp Atlantic gales. His goal was a gaunt-looking building, perched on the highest point of the eminence, and of the customary Cornish mining type – a square, granite engine-house, with tall chimney, and a great beam projecting from the side, rising and falling at slow intervals as it pumped the water from the depths below, to send it flowing in a dirty stream towards the sea.

Geoffrey went swinging along as if he had all the work in the world upon his shoulders, till he became aware of a figure coming in his direction by another track – one which evidently joined his a little on ahead – and he noted that the figure carried a fly-rod over his shoulder.

“Why, it’s the doctor off fishing!” said Geoffrey to himself, as he recognised the fresh-coloured face surmounting the light tweeds. “What a horribly healthy place this must be. Morning, doctor!”

“Good-morning. Did you get your lodgings all right?” said the new-comer, scanning Geoffrey’s face as if in search of the seeds of disease, and looking disappointed.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Well, don’t fall in love with Madge Mullion, or old Mr Paul will be setting me to work to poison you.”

“Confound it all!” cried Geoffrey, facing round as he stopped short. “Do you people here think of nothing else but falling in love?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the doctor, dreamily, as he pushed his soft hat on one side, and gave his head a rub. “Fortunately for me they do think a great deal of that sort of thing.”

“So it seems. I’ve heard enough of it during the past four-and-twenty hours to make it seem as if your people thought young women were gunpowder, and I was a match.”

“Ah, yes!” said the doctor, sadly. “It’s the old story, you know – marrying and giving in marriage. What should we do for our population without?”

“Population don’t seem to keep you very busy, doctor.”

“Pretty well,” he said quietly: “pretty well; people have very large families about here, but they emigrate.”

“Do they?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, the mining trade has been bad. But people have very large families about here,” said the doctor, with a sigh. “I’ve got ten of them.”

“Fruitful vine and olive branches round the table, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Ye-es,” said the doctor, making an imaginary cast with his fly-rod over the heather; “but when the vine is too fruitful it rather shades the table, you know.”

“So I should suppose,” replied Geoffrey, with a slight grimace. “Have you good fishing here?”

“No – oh no! Nothing but small trout in the little streams, and they are getting poisoned by the mining refuse.”

“I’ll try them some day,” said Geoffrey.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said the doctor, nervously. “It isn’t worth your while, and it’s very hard work to get a dish now-a-days,” and he glanced with anxious eyes at his companion. For, on non-busy mornings, Mr James Rumsey, MRCSE – the “doctor” being a local degree – found it useful to take his rod and capture a dish of trout for the home dinner, if he did not go out in the bay, in a borrowed boat, in search of something more substantial.

“Ah well, we’ll see,” said Geoffrey. “Yonder’s Horton Friendship, is it not?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said the doctor, who seemed relieved. “That’s the manager’s office close by. They’ve got a manager there.”

“Oh! have they?” said Geoffrey, who was amused by the doctor’s subdued, weary way. “All right; I’m going to see it, though. Good-morning.”

“Good-morning,” said the doctor, and making dreamy casts with his rod, he went on over the heather.