The Vicar's People. George Manville Fenn

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      “A Mr. Tregenna. Like to know what we had for dinner?”

      “No?” roared Uncle Paul. “Hang the dinner, sir. Any one else there?”

      “The new vicar.”

      “Hang the new vicar. The other fellow had some sense. He never asked me why I didn’t go to church.”

      “Don’t you go?”

      “I? no. It’s very odd,” said the old man, grimly; “but I always have a fit of bile coming on about Saturday night, and it lasts all Sunday. So you saw Tregenna?”

      “Yes, I saw Mr. Tregenna.”

      “Slimy serpent. Hang him.”

      “By all means, if you like,” said Geoffrey, laughing, for the choleric ways and speeches of the old man amused him.

      “What did you think of the daughter, eh?” said the old fellow, with a croak that was evidently intended to do duty for a chuckle.

      “Very nice, sensible girl.”

      “Oh! you think so, do you?”

      “I do certainly.”

      “Marry her,” said Uncle Paul, giving him a poke with his cane. “Plenty of money. Couldn’t do better.”

      “But she could,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “No, old gentleman, I’m not a marrying man.”

      “Or look here,” chuckled the old man, “I can find you a wife. No need though, she’ll fall in love with you herself without asking. Lovely woman, sir. Martha—Martha Pavey. Patty you know, but she’s not plump. He! he! he! Well matured and has a little income of her own. She isn’t above forty-four. Good-looking once. Nice shaped mouth till she set up in it a couple of rows of enamelled tombstones to the memory of so many departed teeth. Looks hard and unkissable now. I laughed at ’em when I saw ’em first. Never forgiven me since, and she always looks at me as if she would bite. Poor thing! Thinks I didn’t detect ’em, and goes about complaining of toothache.”

      “Poor woman,” said Geoffrey.

      “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. СКАЧАТЬ