Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.A Look Round Carnac.“Tell’ee what, Tom Jennen, you fishermen are more nice than wise.”“And I tell’ee, Amos Pengelly, as you miner lads are more nasty than nice. Think of a man as calls hisself a Christian, and preaches to his fellows, buying a gashly chunk of twissening snake of a conger eel, and taking it home to eat.”“And a good thing too, lad. Why, it’s fish, ar’n’t it?”“Fish? Pah! I don’t call them fish.”“Why, it’s as good as your hake, man?”“What, good as hake? Why, ye’ll say next it’s good as mack’rel or pilchar’. I never see the like o’ you miner lads. Why, I see Joe Helston buy a skate one day.”“Ay, and a good thing too. But look yonder on Pen Point! There’s some one got hold of the bushes. I say, Tom Jennen, who’s yonder big, good-looking chap?”“I d’no’. Got on his Sunday clothes, whoever he be. Don’t call him good-looking, though. Big awk’ard chap in a boot. He’d always be in the way. He’s a ’venturer, that’s what he is. Whose money’s he going to chuck down a mine?”“What a chap you are, Tom Jennen! What should we mining folk do if it wasn’t for the ’venturers? We must have metal got up, and somebody’s obliged to speck’late in mines.”“Speck’late in mines, indeed,” said the other, contemptuously. “Why don’t they put their money in boots or nets, so as to make money out of mack’rel or pilchar’?”“Ah, for the boots to go down and drown the poor lads in the first storm, and the nets to be cut and swept away.”“Well, that’s better than chucking the money down a hole in the ground.”“Hey, Tom, you don’t know what’s good for others, so don’t set up as a judge,” and the speaker, a short, lame, very thick-set man, in a rough canvas suit, stained all over of a deep red, showed his white teeth in a pleasant smile, which seemed like sunshine on his rough, repellent face.“Maybe I do; maybe I don’t. I say I don’t call him a good-looking chap.”“Just as if you could tell whether a man’s good-looking or not, Tom Jennen. That’s for the women to do.”“Ha—ha—ha! yes. Bess Prawle says you’re the plainest man she ever see.”The miner flushed scarlet, and an angry light flashed from his eyes, but he seemed to master the annoyance, and said cheerfully,—“I dare say she’s right, Tom. I never set up for a handsome man.”“Like yonder ’venturer chap. He’s the sort as would please old smuggler Prawle’s lass.”The angry flush came into the miner’s face again, but he mastered his annoyance, and said, rather hoarsely,—“Hold your tongue, lad; the gentleman will hear what you say.”“What’s that man doing up on the cliff?” said Geoffrey Trethick, who had walked down by the harbour in making a tour of his new home. “The one waving those things in his hands.”“Sighting a school,” said Tom Jennen, in a sing-song tone, as, after the manner of sea-side men, he leaned his back against the stout rail which guarded the edge of the cliff.“Sighting a school, eh? Of fish, of course?”“Mack’,” said Tom Jennen, so curtly that he cut the word in half, and then proceeded to add to the brown stains at the corners of his mouth by hacking off a piece of tobacco with his big knife.“They do it in partnership like, sir,” said the miner, eagerly, as he gazed in the new-comer’s face, as if attracted by the sound of the word “adventurer.”“One of them goes up on the highest part of the cliff yonder, Pen Dwavas that is, and he watches till he sees a school coming.”“How can he see a school of fish coming?”“Colour,” growled Tom Jennen, who had now turned round, and was trying to spit upon a particular boulder on the shore below.“Yes, by the colour, sir,” said the miner, Amos, or more commonly Preaching Pengelly—“colour of the water; and then he signals to his mates. That’s them gone off in yon boat.”“I see.”“They have their boot ready with the seine in—long net, you know—and rows out, just as you see them now.”“Yes; but what’s the use of his waving those things now?”“Them’s bushes, sir,” continued the miner, who was talking, and reading the new-comer at the same time. “Don’t you see, them in the boot being low down, couldn’t see which way to go, so he waves them on with the bushes.”“To be sure, yes,” said Geoffrey. “I see now. They are throwing something over—yes, of course, the net. So that dark, ripply patch, then, is where the fish lie?”“Yes, sir, that’s them,” said the miner, who seemed strangely attracted; “but you’ve got good eyes.”“Think so?” said Geoffrey, smiling. Then, nodding his thanks, he walked farther along the cliff to watch what was a novelty to him—the taking of the shoal of mackerel.“Ha, ha, ha?” laughed Tom Jennen. “On’y to think o’ the ignorance o’ these foreigners! Here’s a big, awkward chap of a good thirty year of age, and knowed nothing about bushes and a seine boat. If it had been you, Amos Pengelly, as is always grubbing down under the earth, like a long lug-worm, I shouldn’t have wondered; but a man as dresses up fine, and calls hisself a gentleman. Lor’, such gashly ignorance do cap me.”“Well, I don’t know,” said Amos, staring down at his section of conger eel, which he was carrying by a string. “Some folks seem to know a deal too much, Tom;” and, with a good-humoured nod, he followed the new-comer as if eager to see more of one who might be an adventurer, and the opener out of some great vein of tin or copper, till he saw him stop.Geoffrey Trethick found that he was not the only one interested in the seine boat, for silvery mackerel meant silver coin to the fisher-folk of Carnac. The news had spread, and group after group began to assemble, and to note the progress of those shooting the net.For, after rowing in various directions, as guided by the waving bushes on the point, the men in the boat had begun to pass their dark brown net rapidly over the stern, while those in the bows rowed steadily on, forming the arc of a circle, which was to enclose the fish; while these latter, having swum closer in, could now be seen to make the bright waters of the bay all a ripple of blue and silver sheen, with here and there a dash of pink and gold, as if the fish had left upon the surface the impress of their glowing sides.It was an interesting sight to a stranger from town, and as Geoffrey Trethick watched he could hear the remarks of old hands around him canvassing the probability of the fish escaping, or the nets getting entangled among the rocks.But the boat went steadily on, the men cautiously dipping their oars so as not to alarm the mackerel, and fathom after fathom of the piled-up brown stack of net glided into the sea, being passed out so skilfully that as the corks dotted the water the meshes stretched and fell softly down lower and lower till they formed a frail fence of umber thread in the bright waters of the calm bay, every fathom increasing the wall that was soon to encircle the shoal.One dart of a frightened fish towards the unenclosed part, and away would have gone the whole school; but the mackerel seemed to be intent on playing near the surface, and the seine boat went on shaking out fathom after fathom of the net till seaward there was a half-circle of brown corks, ever increasing to three-quarters.And now Geoffrey Trethick, who had become deeply interested, unaware of the fact that he was the chief object of attraction to the people on the cliff, saw for the first time that a small boat, managed by a couple of men, remained by the other end of the net, and that as the first boat came nearer towards making a circle, the lesser boat was put in motion.These were the most anxious moments, and the little crowd upon the cliff seemed to hold its breath. Then as the dark dots that represented the corks were seen to have nearly joined, the two boats being in the open space, there was a bit of a cheer.“Tchah! Fools!” said a harsh voice close to Trethick’s ear. “They have not caught them yet!”Geoffrey turned, and found that the words proceeded from a little, withered, yellow-faced man, in a very old-fashioned dress. He was well-to-do, evidently, for a bunch of heavy gold seals hung from a black watch-ribbon, his Panama hat was of the finest quality, and there was something dapper and suggestive of the William the Fourth gentleman, in the blue coat, with gilt buttons, and neat drab trousers.“I said, Tchah! Fools!” repeated the little man, on noticing Geoffrey’s inquiring gaze. “They have not got them yet!”“Many a slip betwixt cup and lip, eh?” said Geoffrey, quietly. “Yes: one pull of the net over a rock—one blunder, and away goes the school; and that’s life?”“You mean that’s your idea of life,” said Geoffrey. “No, I don’t, boy. I mean that’s life!”“According to your view,” said Geoffrey, smiling.“According to what it is,” said the old man, testily. “What the devil do you know of life, at your age?”“Ah! that would take some telling,” replied Geoffrey. “You and I would have to argue that matter out.”“Argue? Bah! Do I look a man with time to waste in argument?”“Well, no; nor yet in getting out of temper, and calling people fools,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.The old man thumped his thick malacca cane upon the stones, and stared aghast at the stranger who dared to speak to him in so free and contradictory a manner in a place where, after a fashion, he had been a kind of king.“Here, you: Rumsey!” he cried, panting with anger and pointing at Geoffrey with his cane, as a fair, fresh-coloured man in grey tweed came slowly up; “who the devil is this fellow?”“Don’t be cross, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I will tell you my name if you like.”“Confound your name, sir! What the deuce are you—a bagman?”“No,” said Geoffrey; “but look,” he added quickly, as he pointed to the circle of nets. “What does that mean?”“Ha, ha, ha! I told you so,” chuckled the old man, whose face underwent a complete change. “They’ve got on a rock, and the whole school has gone.”“Poor fellows! What a disappointment,” said Geoffrey.“Bah! A man must expect disappointments here. Rumsey, I’m horribly bilious this morning,” he continued, turning to the fresh-coloured man.“Yes, so you seem,” was the reply; and Geoffrey smiled at the frank confession. “Exceeded your dose last night.”“Dose?” said the old gentleman. “Hang it, man, don’t call a glass of spirits and water by the same name as your filthy drugs. Good-morning, boy! and don’t you laugh at me.”Hooking the fresh-coloured man by the arm, he was moving off.“Good-morning,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “But stop a moment. Perhaps you gentlemen can help me.”“Come away, Rumsey!” cried the old fellow, with mock horror in his thin face. “He’s a book canvasser, or a collector for some confounded charity. Who the devil are you, sir; and what do you want?”“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, merrily. “Have you been out in India?”“Yes, sir—I have been out in India,” cried the old man, turning yellow with anger once more. “Confounded puppy!” he muttered, thumping down his stick.“I thought so,” replied Geoffrey, coolly; “I had an uncle just like you.”“Confound your uncle, sir!” cried the choleric old man. “Hang it all, Rumsey, don’t you hear the fellow insulting me? Why don’t you knock him down, or poison him?”“Have I the pleasure of addressing Dr Rumsey?” said Geoffrey.“That is my name,” said the fresh-coloured man, looking suspiciously at the speaker as one who seemed too lusty and well to be in his way.“I am coming to live here, doctor,” said Geoffrey, in a free, frank way that seemed to set him at ease with those whom he had addressed. “I only came in by the coach this morning. Where can I get comfortable, inexpensive apartments—just a bed and sitting-room, you know? I have been asking everywhere, but there seems to be no such thing to be had.”The doctor glanced at the old gentleman, and the old gentleman returned the look, following it up by poking Geoffrey in the side with his cane.“Here, young fellow—you, sir! Who are your—what are you?” he exclaimed.“Who am I, my unceremonious old friend, and what am I? Well, my name is Trethick, and I’m a mining engineer.”“But are you respectable?”“No,” said Geoffrey, solemnly. “I am very poor; so I don’t think I am.”“Confound you, sir!” cried the old gentleman. “Your eyes are twinkling. You’re laughing at me.”“True, oh, king,” said Geoffrey.“But can you pay regularly for your lodgings?”“I hope so,” replied Geoffrey, whom the choleric old fellow thoroughly amused.“Come here,” cried the latter, dropping the doctor and hooking Geoffrey by the arm, as if taking him into custody. “You’re good for the bile! Rumsey, I’ll take him up to Mrs Mullion’s, or she’ll be letting her rooms to the new parson out of spite.”

“Tell’ee what, Tom Jennen, you fishermen are more nice than wise.”

“And I tell’ee, Amos Pengelly, as you miner lads are more nasty than nice. Think of a man as calls hisself a Christian, and preaches to his fellows, buying a gashly chunk of twissening snake of a conger eel, and taking it home to eat.”

“And a good thing too, lad. Why, it’s fish, ar’n’t it?”

“Fish? Pah! I don’t call them fish.”

“Why, it’s as good as your hake, man?”

“What, good as hake? Why, ye’ll say next it’s good as mack’rel or pilchar’. I never see the like o’ you miner lads. Why, I see Joe Helston buy a skate one day.”

“Ay, and a good thing too. But look yonder on Pen Point! There’s some one got hold of the bushes. I say, Tom Jennen, who’s yonder big, good-looking chap?”

“I d’no’. Got on his Sunday clothes, whoever he be. Don’t call him good-looking, though. Big awk’ard chap in a boot. He’d always be in the way. He’s a ’venturer, that’s what he is. Whose money’s he going to chuck down a mine?”

“What a chap you are, Tom Jennen! What should we mining folk do if it wasn’t for the ’venturers? We must have metal got up, and somebody’s obliged to speck’late in mines.”

“Speck’late in mines, indeed,” said the other, contemptuously. “Why don’t they put their money in boots or nets, so as to make money out of mack’rel or pilchar’?”

“Ah, for the boots to go down and drown the poor lads in the first storm, and the nets to be cut and swept away.”

“Well, that’s better than chucking the money down a hole in the ground.”

“Hey, Tom, you don’t know what’s good for others, so don’t set up as a judge,” and the speaker, a short, lame, very thick-set man, in a rough canvas suit, stained all over of a deep red, showed his white teeth in a pleasant smile, which seemed like sunshine on his rough, repellent face.

“Maybe I do; maybe I don’t. I say I don’t call him a good-looking chap.”

“Just as if you could tell whether a man’s good-looking or not, Tom Jennen. That’s for the women to do.”

“Ha—ha—ha! yes. Bess Prawle says you’re the plainest man she ever see.”

The miner flushed scarlet, and an angry light flashed from his eyes, but he seemed to master the annoyance, and said cheerfully,—

“I dare say she’s right, Tom. I never set up for a handsome man.”

“Like yonder ’venturer chap. He’s the sort as would please old smuggler Prawle’s lass.”

The angry flush came into the miner’s face again, but he mastered his annoyance, and said, rather hoarsely,—

“Hold your tongue, lad; the gentleman will hear what you say.”

“What’s that man doing up on the cliff?” said Geoffrey Trethick, who had walked down by the harbour in making a tour of his new home. “The one waving those things in his hands.”

“Sighting a school,” said Tom Jennen, in a sing-song tone, as, after the manner of sea-side men, he leaned his back against the stout rail which guarded the edge of the cliff.

“Sighting a school, eh? Of fish, of course?”

“Mack’,” said Tom Jennen, so curtly that he cut the word in half, and then proceeded to add to the brown stains at the corners of his mouth by hacking off a piece of tobacco with his big knife.

“They do it in partnership like, sir,” said the miner, eagerly, as he gazed in the new-comer’s face, as if attracted by the sound of the word “adventurer.”

“One of them goes up on the highest part of the cliff yonder, Pen Dwavas that is, and he watches till he sees a school coming.”

“How can he see a school of fish coming?”

“Colour,” growled Tom Jennen, who had now turned round, and was trying to spit upon a particular boulder on the shore below.

“Yes, by the colour, sir,” said the miner, Amos, or more commonly Preaching Pengelly—“colour of the water; and then he signals to his mates. That’s them gone off in yon boat.”

“I see.”

“They have their boot ready with the seine in—long net, you know—and rows out, just as you see them now.”

“Yes; but what’s the use of his waving those things now?”

“Them’s bushes, sir,” continued the miner, who was talking, and reading the new-comer at the same time. “Don’t you see, them in the boot being low down, couldn’t see which way to go, so he waves them on with the bushes.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Geoffrey. “I see now. They are throwing something over—yes, of course, the net. So that dark, ripply patch, then, is where the fish lie?”

“Yes, sir, that’s them,” said the miner, who seemed strangely attracted; “but you’ve got good eyes.”

“Think so?” said Geoffrey, smiling. Then, nodding his thanks, he walked farther along the cliff to watch what was a novelty to him—the taking of the shoal of mackerel.

“Ha, ha, ha?” laughed Tom Jennen. “On’y to think o’ the ignorance o’ these foreigners! Here’s a big, awkward chap of a good thirty year of age, and knowed nothing about bushes and a seine boat. If it had been you, Amos Pengelly, as is always grubbing down under the earth, like a long lug-worm, I shouldn’t have wondered; but a man as dresses up fine, and calls hisself a gentleman. Lor’, such gashly ignorance do cap me.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Amos, staring down at his section of conger eel, which he was carrying by a string. “Some folks seem to know a deal too much, Tom;” and, with a good-humoured nod, he followed the new-comer as if eager to see more of one who might be an adventurer, and the opener out of some great vein of tin or copper, till he saw him stop.

Geoffrey Trethick found that he was not the only one interested in the seine boat, for silvery mackerel meant silver coin to the fisher-folk of Carnac. The news had spread, and group after group began to assemble, and to note the progress of those shooting the net.

For, after rowing in various directions, as guided by the waving bushes on the point, the men in the boat had begun to pass their dark brown net rapidly over the stern, while those in the bows rowed steadily on, forming the arc of a circle, which was to enclose the fish; while these latter, having swum closer in, could now be seen to make the bright waters of the bay all a ripple of blue and silver sheen, with here and there a dash of pink and gold, as if the fish had left upon the surface the impress of their glowing sides.

It was an interesting sight to a stranger from town, and as Geoffrey Trethick watched he could hear the remarks of old hands around him canvassing the probability of the fish escaping, or the nets getting entangled among the rocks.

But the boat went steadily on, the men cautiously dipping their oars so as not to alarm the mackerel, and fathom after fathom of the piled-up brown stack of net glided into the sea, being passed out so skilfully that as the corks dotted the water the meshes stretched and fell softly down lower and lower till they formed a frail fence of umber thread in the bright waters of the calm bay, every fathom increasing the wall that was soon to encircle the shoal.

One dart of a frightened fish towards the unenclosed part, and away would have gone the whole school; but the mackerel seemed to be intent on playing near the surface, and the seine boat went on shaking out fathom after fathom of the net till seaward there was a half-circle of brown corks, ever increasing to three-quarters.

And now Geoffrey Trethick, who had become deeply interested, unaware of the fact that he was the chief object of attraction to the people on the cliff, saw for the first time that a small boat, managed by a couple of men, remained by the other end of the net, and that as the first boat came nearer towards making a circle, the lesser boat was put in motion.

These were the most anxious moments, and the little crowd upon the cliff seemed to hold its breath. Then as the dark dots that represented the corks were seen to have nearly joined, the two boats being in the open space, there was a bit of a cheer.

“Tchah! Fools!” said a harsh voice close to Trethick’s ear. “They have not caught them yet!”

Geoffrey turned, and found that the words proceeded from a little, withered, yellow-faced man, in a very old-fashioned dress. He was well-to-do, evidently, for a bunch of heavy gold seals hung from a black watch-ribbon, his Panama hat was of the finest quality, and there was something dapper and suggestive of the William the Fourth gentleman, in the blue coat, with gilt buttons, and neat drab trousers.

“I said, Tchah! Fools!” repeated the little man, on noticing Geoffrey’s inquiring gaze. “They have not got them yet!”

“Many a slip betwixt cup and lip, eh?” said Geoffrey, quietly. “Yes: one pull of the net over a rock—one blunder, and away goes the school; and that’s life?”

“You mean that’s your idea of life,” said Geoffrey. “No, I don’t, boy. I mean that’s life!”

“According to your view,” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“According to what it is,” said the old man, testily. “What the devil do you know of life, at your age?”

“Ah! that would take some telling,” replied Geoffrey. “You and I would have to argue that matter out.”

“Argue? Bah! Do I look a man with time to waste in argument?”

“Well, no; nor yet in getting out of temper, and calling people fools,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.

The old man thumped his thick malacca cane upon the stones, and stared aghast at the stranger who dared to speak to him in so free and contradictory a manner in a place where, after a fashion, he had been a kind of king.

“Here, you: Rumsey!” he cried, panting with anger and pointing at Geoffrey with his cane, as a fair, fresh-coloured man in grey tweed came slowly up; “who the devil is this fellow?”

“Don’t be cross, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I will tell you my name if you like.”

“Confound your name, sir! What the deuce are you—a bagman?”

“No,” said Geoffrey; “but look,” he added quickly, as he pointed to the circle of nets. “What does that mean?”

“Ha, ha, ha! I told you so,” chuckled the old man, whose face underwent a complete change. “They’ve got on a rock, and the whole school has gone.”

“Poor fellows! What a disappointment,” said Geoffrey.

“Bah! A man must expect disappointments here. Rumsey, I’m horribly bilious this morning,” he continued, turning to the fresh-coloured man.

“Yes, so you seem,” was the reply; and Geoffrey smiled at the frank confession. “Exceeded your dose last night.”

“Dose?” said the old gentleman. “Hang it, man, don’t call a glass of spirits and water by the same name as your filthy drugs. Good-morning, boy! and don’t you laugh at me.”

Hooking the fresh-coloured man by the arm, he was moving off.

“Good-morning,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “But stop a moment. Perhaps you gentlemen can help me.”

“Come away, Rumsey!” cried the old fellow, with mock horror in his thin face. “He’s a book canvasser, or a collector for some confounded charity. Who the devil are you, sir; and what do you want?”

“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, merrily. “Have you been out in India?”

“Yes, sir—I have been out in India,” cried the old man, turning yellow with anger once more. “Confounded puppy!” he muttered, thumping down his stick.

“I thought so,” replied Geoffrey, coolly; “I had an uncle just like you.”

“Confound your uncle, sir!” cried the choleric old man. “Hang it all, Rumsey, don’t you hear the fellow insulting me? Why don’t you knock him down, or poison him?”

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Dr Rumsey?” said Geoffrey.

“That is my name,” said the fresh-coloured man, looking suspiciously at the speaker as one who seemed too lusty and well to be in his way.

“I am coming to live here, doctor,” said Geoffrey, in a free, frank way that seemed to set him at ease with those whom he had addressed. “I only came in by the coach this morning. Where can I get comfortable, inexpensive apartments—just a bed and sitting-room, you know? I have been asking everywhere, but there seems to be no such thing to be had.”

The doctor glanced at the old gentleman, and the old gentleman returned the look, following it up by poking Geoffrey in the side with his cane.

“Here, young fellow—you, sir! Who are your—what are you?” he exclaimed.

“Who am I, my unceremonious old friend, and what am I? Well, my name is Trethick, and I’m a mining engineer.”

“But are you respectable?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, solemnly. “I am very poor; so I don’t think I am.”

“Confound you, sir!” cried the old gentleman. “Your eyes are twinkling. You’re laughing at me.”

“True, oh, king,” said Geoffrey.

“But can you pay regularly for your lodgings?”

“I hope so,” replied Geoffrey, whom the choleric old fellow thoroughly amused.

“Come here,” cried the latter, dropping the doctor and hooking Geoffrey by the arm, as if taking him into custody. “You’re good for the bile! Rumsey, I’ll take him up to Mrs Mullion’s, or she’ll be letting her rooms to the new parson out of spite.”

Chapter Six.Apartments to Let.Geoffrey looked in astonishment at the old gentleman, and then glanced at the doctor.“You can’t do better, Mr Trethick,” said that individual, “for those are the only decent apartments you are likely to get here.”“Of course,” said the old gentleman. “Come along, boy;” and thumping the ferrule of his cane down upon the granite paving-stones, which in rough irregular masses formed the path, he led the way along the cliff, and then turned off up a very steep zigzag path, which led up higher and higher, the old fellow pausing at every turn to get breath, as he pointed with his stick at the glorious prospects of sea and land which kept opening out.“Lovely place, boy,” he panted. “Come along. Takes my breath away, but it’s better for the bile than old Rumsey’s drugs. Suppose you could run up here?”“I dare say I could,” said Geoffrey; “or carry you up if I tried.”“Confound your ugly great muscles! I dare say you could. But look yonder—that’s some of your work.”“My work?” cried Geoffrey, as the old man pointed to the great granite engine-house on the promontory already known to the new arrival as Wheal Carnac.“Well, the work of you engineering mining fellows. Thousands of pounds have gone down that hole.”“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Geoffrey, as they still ascended, until the old gentleman stopped short before a pretty granite-built house in a nook of the huge cliff that sloped down to the sea. It was well sheltered from the north and east, and its broad terrace-like garden was blushing with bright-hued flowers. In one corner was a well-built summer-house, which served as a look-out over the shimmering sea, and from which the putting out of the fishing-fleet, or the sailing to and fro of the great vessels in the Channel, could be plainly seen.“Ah! this looks homely and snug,” said Geoffrey, as he noticed the clean windows, white curtains, and pleasant aspect of the place.“Yes, it’s pretty well,” said the old gentleman, who was always furtively watching his companion, and as he spoke he laid his hand upon the green gate at the foot of a rough granite flight of steps. “This is the way up from the cliff; there’s a road from Carnac town on the other side. Will it do?”“Depends on terms and accommodation,” said Geoffrey, sharply, as he followed his guide up to the pleasant green terrace lawn.“Humph! Go and see Mrs Mullion, then, and say Mr Paul sent you. I am going in here to smoke a cheroot,” and he pointed to the summer-house.“Do you live here, then?” said Geoffrey, for the old man seemed quite at home.“Live here?” said the choleric old fellow, sharply. “Of course I do. Didn’t see a shell on my back, did you? Where the deuce do you suppose I lived?”As he spoke he drew out a handsome silver cigar-case, and selecting a very long, black cheroot, held it out to his companion.“Here,” he said, “can you smoke one of these?”“To be sure I can,” said Geoffrey. “Try one of mine.”“It’s strong. Mind it don’t make you sick, boy,” said the old fellow grimly, as Geoffrey took the black cheroot, and then opened his own case—an effeminate silk-worked affair—which he handed to his companion.The old man turned it about with the yellow corners of his lips curled down in disgust.“Girl work that for you?” he said, with quite a snarl.“No! Mother,” said Geoffrey, abruptly.“Ho!” said the old gentleman, picking and turning over one cigar after another, and then replacing it. “There, take your case, boy; I can’t smoke your town-made trash.”“Town-made trash, eh?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, they’re as good as your Trichinopolies.”“Rubbish!” said the old fellow.“Real Havanas, given me by old Sir Harry. Dunton.”“Not Harry Dunton, Governor of Ginjaica?”“Yes! Do you know him?”“Did once,” said the old fellow, with asperity. “Here, boy, I’ll have one. Now go and see about your lodgings; and come back to me,” he added imperatively.Geoffrey stood smiling at him for a few moments.“I say, old gentleman,” he said, “how many coolies used you to have under you in the East?”“Over a thousand, sir,” said the old gentleman, irascibly.“I thought so,” said Geoffrey, and he turned on his heels, and walked up to the clematis-covered porch that shaded the open door.“I’d give some thousands to be as young and strong, and—and yes, confound him!—as impudent as that fellow. Hang him! he hasn’t a bit of veneration in him,” muttered the old gentleman, entering the summer-house, and striking a match for his cheroot. “He’ll just be right for them, as they’ve lost the parson. Hang ’em, how I do hate parsons!”He took a few pulls at his cheroot, and emitted cloud after cloud of smoke, as he stood in the shade of the summer-house, looking at Geoffrey’s back.“He’s a good-looking fellow, too, and—phew!” he added, with a long-drawn whistle, “what a fool I am. There’s Madge, of course, and at the door first thing.”“If I am any thing of a judge, you are a very pretty girl,” said Geoffrey to himself, as his summons was answered by a merry-looking brunette, in a very simple morning dress and print apron, a book in one hand, a feather dusting-brush in the other. Her rather wilful hair, of a crisp, dark brown, had evidently been touched by the sea-breeze, for a waving strand was brushed hastily back as the girl saw the visitor; and the same, or other breezes, had given a rich tone to her complexion, which was heightened by the flush which came to her cheeks, as she hastily threw brush and book on to a chair, and gave a tug at the string of her apron, which absolutely refused to come off.“Can I speak to Mrs Mullion?” said Geoffrey, unable to repress a smile at the girl’s vanity and confusion.“Oh! yes. Please will you step in?”“Who’s that, Madge?” cried a voice from somewhere at the back. “If it’s Aunt Borlase, we don’t want any fish to-day, and tell her—”“Hush, mamma!” exclaimed the girl, turning sharply, but without checking the voice, whose owner—a very round, pleasant-looking little matron—came forward, with a piece of black silk in one hand, a sponge in the other, and bringing with her a peculiar smell of hot irons lately applied to the material she held.“Well, my dear,” she said, volubly, “how was I to know that it was company? Oh! good-morning, sir.”“Good-morning,” said Geoffrey, who was pleasantly impressed by the mother and daughter, who now led the way into a comfortable old-fashioned parlour, whose window looked direct upon the foam-fringed promontory on which stood the ruined mine. “A Mr Paul, whom I have just left, advised me to see you about your apartments.”“Oh! yes,” said the elder lady, smoothing herself down in front, as if trying to free herself from a little exuberance—the younger lady having now got rid of brush, book, and apron, and given a furtive touch to her pretty hair. “You are Mr Lee, our new clergyman,” she continued volubly, “and—”“Indeed I am not!” said Geoffrey, laughing, and glancing at the younger lady, who blushed, and gave her head a conscious toss.“But I sent word to the hotel that I should be glad to take him in,” said the elder lady; “and now that’s just the way with that Aunt Borlase. Madge, dear, they never got the message.”“Is this one of the rooms?” said Geoffrey, to stem the flood of eloquence.“Yes, sir; and Mr Paul, who is my late husband’s half-brother, has the other front parlour, which we sometimes share with him when he is in a good temper. When he isn’t, my daughter and I—this is my daughter, sir—sit in the—”“Oh, mamma, hush!” exclaimed the younger lady, acknowledging Geoffrey’s bow.“Well, my dear, it’s the simple truth,” said mamma. “I hope you don’t object to the smell of black silk being ironed, sir?”“Oh, dear, no,” said Geoffrey, smiling.“It’s the being sponged over with beer first,” continued the little woman. “It makes it so stiff, and when it’s done it looks almost as good as new.”“But, mamma,” remonstrated the younger lady.“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Quite superior people turn their black silks, and have them re-made over and over again. There really is no cheaper wear than a good black silk.”“But about the apartments,” said Geoffrey, to the younger lady’s great relief.“Oh! yes; of course. To be sure,” continued the little lady. “I let the bedchambers over the rooms, sir. One to each.”“Exactly,” said Geoffrey, who was much amused at the simplicity of the elder lady, and the assumption of gentility on the part of the younger; “but do I understand you to say that the apartments are engaged?”“Well, sir, I feel as if I ought to wait and see if Mr Lee, our new clergyman, wants the rooms, especially as there are no other apartments fit for a gentleman to be had in Carnac, and where he could get proper attention. Not that I make a profession of letting lodgings, sir. Oh, dear, no! Mr Paul is a relative, and he occupies—”“Mamma, dear,” said the younger lady, “I don’t think this gentleman will care to hear that.”“But how can he understand my position, Margaret, if I do not explain it?” remonstrated the elder.“You hold out very pleasant prospects,” interposed Geoffrey, hastily. “No other apartments to be had. But suppose Mr Lee does not take them?”“Who the deuce is Mr Lee?” said a sharp voice at the open window. “Come: what is it—terms? Haven’t you settled yet?”“Mr Lee is the new clergyman, brother Thomas,” said the plump little lady, giving herself another smooth down, “and if he wants the rooms that Mr Owen had, dear, why of course—”“He’ll have to want them,” said the old gentleman, sharply, as he sent a puff of smoke into the room. “I won’t have another parson in the house while I stay. If you mean to have him here, I go.”“Oh, pray don’t talk like that, brother Thomas!” cried Mrs Mullion, hastily, her aspect showing plainly enough that she was greatly in awe of the old man. “Of course you know, dear, that I will do precisely as you wish.”“What I wish? Do what I wish?” snapped out the old gentleman. “Do what you like. But you told me distinctly that you were very eager to let these two rooms, and I take the trouble to put myself out, and go out of my way when I had a pressing engagement with Dr Rumsey, to bring up a—a—somebody who wants them. What more would you have? You, Madge,” he added fiercely, “don’t make eyes at strangers like that: it’s rude.”“Oh, uncle?” cried the girl, indignantly, and her face was scarlet.“So you were. Give me that letter off the chimney-piece.”The girl obeyed, fetching a large blue missive ready directed for the post, and stood holding it while the old gentleman, smoking away the while, took some stamps from his pocket-book, and tore one off.“Now then,” he continued, sharply, and to Geoffrey Trethick’s great astonishment, “put out your tongue.”“I’m—I’m quite well, uncle,” stammered the girl.“Put out your tongue, miss!” cried the old fellow, sharply. “I don’t care how you are: I want to wet this stamp.”“Oh, uncle!” cried the girl, in confusion, and she rushed out of the room, leaving the old man chuckling with satisfaction.“Ah, well; I must lick it myself,” he said. “I hate licking stamps. Here, Jane, you put it on,” he continued, handing letter and stamp to the little woman, who proceeded to obey his command. “Well, now then, are you going to let the rooms, or are you not? This gentleman can’t stop shilly-shallying all day.”“I shall be very happy to let them, I’m sure,” stammered the poor woman; and, after the settlement of a few preliminaries, it was arranged that the new-comer’s luggage should be fetched from the hotel, and he took possession at once, after the old gentleman had suggested that a month in advance should be paid for, which was done.

Geoffrey looked in astonishment at the old gentleman, and then glanced at the doctor.

“You can’t do better, Mr Trethick,” said that individual, “for those are the only decent apartments you are likely to get here.”

“Of course,” said the old gentleman. “Come along, boy;” and thumping the ferrule of his cane down upon the granite paving-stones, which in rough irregular masses formed the path, he led the way along the cliff, and then turned off up a very steep zigzag path, which led up higher and higher, the old fellow pausing at every turn to get breath, as he pointed with his stick at the glorious prospects of sea and land which kept opening out.

“Lovely place, boy,” he panted. “Come along. Takes my breath away, but it’s better for the bile than old Rumsey’s drugs. Suppose you could run up here?”

“I dare say I could,” said Geoffrey; “or carry you up if I tried.”

“Confound your ugly great muscles! I dare say you could. But look yonder—that’s some of your work.”

“My work?” cried Geoffrey, as the old man pointed to the great granite engine-house on the promontory already known to the new arrival as Wheal Carnac.

“Well, the work of you engineering mining fellows. Thousands of pounds have gone down that hole.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Geoffrey, as they still ascended, until the old gentleman stopped short before a pretty granite-built house in a nook of the huge cliff that sloped down to the sea. It was well sheltered from the north and east, and its broad terrace-like garden was blushing with bright-hued flowers. In one corner was a well-built summer-house, which served as a look-out over the shimmering sea, and from which the putting out of the fishing-fleet, or the sailing to and fro of the great vessels in the Channel, could be plainly seen.

“Ah! this looks homely and snug,” said Geoffrey, as he noticed the clean windows, white curtains, and pleasant aspect of the place.

“Yes, it’s pretty well,” said the old gentleman, who was always furtively watching his companion, and as he spoke he laid his hand upon the green gate at the foot of a rough granite flight of steps. “This is the way up from the cliff; there’s a road from Carnac town on the other side. Will it do?”

“Depends on terms and accommodation,” said Geoffrey, sharply, as he followed his guide up to the pleasant green terrace lawn.

“Humph! Go and see Mrs Mullion, then, and say Mr Paul sent you. I am going in here to smoke a cheroot,” and he pointed to the summer-house.

“Do you live here, then?” said Geoffrey, for the old man seemed quite at home.

“Live here?” said the choleric old fellow, sharply. “Of course I do. Didn’t see a shell on my back, did you? Where the deuce do you suppose I lived?”

As he spoke he drew out a handsome silver cigar-case, and selecting a very long, black cheroot, held it out to his companion.

“Here,” he said, “can you smoke one of these?”

“To be sure I can,” said Geoffrey. “Try one of mine.”

“It’s strong. Mind it don’t make you sick, boy,” said the old fellow grimly, as Geoffrey took the black cheroot, and then opened his own case—an effeminate silk-worked affair—which he handed to his companion.

The old man turned it about with the yellow corners of his lips curled down in disgust.

“Girl work that for you?” he said, with quite a snarl.

“No! Mother,” said Geoffrey, abruptly.

“Ho!” said the old gentleman, picking and turning over one cigar after another, and then replacing it. “There, take your case, boy; I can’t smoke your town-made trash.”

“Town-made trash, eh?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, they’re as good as your Trichinopolies.”

“Rubbish!” said the old fellow.

“Real Havanas, given me by old Sir Harry. Dunton.”

“Not Harry Dunton, Governor of Ginjaica?”

“Yes! Do you know him?”

“Did once,” said the old fellow, with asperity. “Here, boy, I’ll have one. Now go and see about your lodgings; and come back to me,” he added imperatively.

Geoffrey stood smiling at him for a few moments.

“I say, old gentleman,” he said, “how many coolies used you to have under you in the East?”

“Over a thousand, sir,” said the old gentleman, irascibly.

“I thought so,” said Geoffrey, and he turned on his heels, and walked up to the clematis-covered porch that shaded the open door.

“I’d give some thousands to be as young and strong, and—and yes, confound him!—as impudent as that fellow. Hang him! he hasn’t a bit of veneration in him,” muttered the old gentleman, entering the summer-house, and striking a match for his cheroot. “He’ll just be right for them, as they’ve lost the parson. Hang ’em, how I do hate parsons!”

He took a few pulls at his cheroot, and emitted cloud after cloud of smoke, as he stood in the shade of the summer-house, looking at Geoffrey’s back.

“He’s a good-looking fellow, too, and—phew!” he added, with a long-drawn whistle, “what a fool I am. There’s Madge, of course, and at the door first thing.”

“If I am any thing of a judge, you are a very pretty girl,” said Geoffrey to himself, as his summons was answered by a merry-looking brunette, in a very simple morning dress and print apron, a book in one hand, a feather dusting-brush in the other. Her rather wilful hair, of a crisp, dark brown, had evidently been touched by the sea-breeze, for a waving strand was brushed hastily back as the girl saw the visitor; and the same, or other breezes, had given a rich tone to her complexion, which was heightened by the flush which came to her cheeks, as she hastily threw brush and book on to a chair, and gave a tug at the string of her apron, which absolutely refused to come off.

“Can I speak to Mrs Mullion?” said Geoffrey, unable to repress a smile at the girl’s vanity and confusion.

“Oh! yes. Please will you step in?”

“Who’s that, Madge?” cried a voice from somewhere at the back. “If it’s Aunt Borlase, we don’t want any fish to-day, and tell her—”

“Hush, mamma!” exclaimed the girl, turning sharply, but without checking the voice, whose owner—a very round, pleasant-looking little matron—came forward, with a piece of black silk in one hand, a sponge in the other, and bringing with her a peculiar smell of hot irons lately applied to the material she held.

“Well, my dear,” she said, volubly, “how was I to know that it was company? Oh! good-morning, sir.”

“Good-morning,” said Geoffrey, who was pleasantly impressed by the mother and daughter, who now led the way into a comfortable old-fashioned parlour, whose window looked direct upon the foam-fringed promontory on which stood the ruined mine. “A Mr Paul, whom I have just left, advised me to see you about your apartments.”

“Oh! yes,” said the elder lady, smoothing herself down in front, as if trying to free herself from a little exuberance—the younger lady having now got rid of brush, book, and apron, and given a furtive touch to her pretty hair. “You are Mr Lee, our new clergyman,” she continued volubly, “and—”

“Indeed I am not!” said Geoffrey, laughing, and glancing at the younger lady, who blushed, and gave her head a conscious toss.

“But I sent word to the hotel that I should be glad to take him in,” said the elder lady; “and now that’s just the way with that Aunt Borlase. Madge, dear, they never got the message.”

“Is this one of the rooms?” said Geoffrey, to stem the flood of eloquence.

“Yes, sir; and Mr Paul, who is my late husband’s half-brother, has the other front parlour, which we sometimes share with him when he is in a good temper. When he isn’t, my daughter and I—this is my daughter, sir—sit in the—”

“Oh, mamma, hush!” exclaimed the younger lady, acknowledging Geoffrey’s bow.

“Well, my dear, it’s the simple truth,” said mamma. “I hope you don’t object to the smell of black silk being ironed, sir?”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“It’s the being sponged over with beer first,” continued the little woman. “It makes it so stiff, and when it’s done it looks almost as good as new.”

“But, mamma,” remonstrated the younger lady.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Quite superior people turn their black silks, and have them re-made over and over again. There really is no cheaper wear than a good black silk.”

“But about the apartments,” said Geoffrey, to the younger lady’s great relief.

“Oh! yes; of course. To be sure,” continued the little lady. “I let the bedchambers over the rooms, sir. One to each.”

“Exactly,” said Geoffrey, who was much amused at the simplicity of the elder lady, and the assumption of gentility on the part of the younger; “but do I understand you to say that the apartments are engaged?”

“Well, sir, I feel as if I ought to wait and see if Mr Lee, our new clergyman, wants the rooms, especially as there are no other apartments fit for a gentleman to be had in Carnac, and where he could get proper attention. Not that I make a profession of letting lodgings, sir. Oh, dear, no! Mr Paul is a relative, and he occupies—”

“Mamma, dear,” said the younger lady, “I don’t think this gentleman will care to hear that.”

“But how can he understand my position, Margaret, if I do not explain it?” remonstrated the elder.

“You hold out very pleasant prospects,” interposed Geoffrey, hastily. “No other apartments to be had. But suppose Mr Lee does not take them?”

“Who the deuce is Mr Lee?” said a sharp voice at the open window. “Come: what is it—terms? Haven’t you settled yet?”

“Mr Lee is the new clergyman, brother Thomas,” said the plump little lady, giving herself another smooth down, “and if he wants the rooms that Mr Owen had, dear, why of course—”

“He’ll have to want them,” said the old gentleman, sharply, as he sent a puff of smoke into the room. “I won’t have another parson in the house while I stay. If you mean to have him here, I go.”

“Oh, pray don’t talk like that, brother Thomas!” cried Mrs Mullion, hastily, her aspect showing plainly enough that she was greatly in awe of the old man. “Of course you know, dear, that I will do precisely as you wish.”

“What I wish? Do what I wish?” snapped out the old gentleman. “Do what you like. But you told me distinctly that you were very eager to let these two rooms, and I take the trouble to put myself out, and go out of my way when I had a pressing engagement with Dr Rumsey, to bring up a—a—somebody who wants them. What more would you have? You, Madge,” he added fiercely, “don’t make eyes at strangers like that: it’s rude.”

“Oh, uncle?” cried the girl, indignantly, and her face was scarlet.

“So you were. Give me that letter off the chimney-piece.”

The girl obeyed, fetching a large blue missive ready directed for the post, and stood holding it while the old gentleman, smoking away the while, took some stamps from his pocket-book, and tore one off.

“Now then,” he continued, sharply, and to Geoffrey Trethick’s great astonishment, “put out your tongue.”

“I’m—I’m quite well, uncle,” stammered the girl.

“Put out your tongue, miss!” cried the old fellow, sharply. “I don’t care how you are: I want to wet this stamp.”

“Oh, uncle!” cried the girl, in confusion, and she rushed out of the room, leaving the old man chuckling with satisfaction.

“Ah, well; I must lick it myself,” he said. “I hate licking stamps. Here, Jane, you put it on,” he continued, handing letter and stamp to the little woman, who proceeded to obey his command. “Well, now then, are you going to let the rooms, or are you not? This gentleman can’t stop shilly-shallying all day.”

“I shall be very happy to let them, I’m sure,” stammered the poor woman; and, after the settlement of a few preliminaries, it was arranged that the new-comer’s luggage should be fetched from the hotel, and he took possession at once, after the old gentleman had suggested that a month in advance should be paid for, which was done.

Chapter Seven.Uncle Paul Utters Warnings.“You see, you are quite a stranger,” said the old gentleman, in a kind of gruff apology; “and I’m obliged to look after that poor woman’s interests. Now, then,” he continued, leading the way into the garden, “light up and come into the look-out, boy; I want to talk to you.”Geoffrey followed him, and as soon as they were seated they smoked and stared at each other in silence for a time, the young man rather enjoying his elder’s keen scrutiny.“Pleasant woman, my sister-in-law,” said Mr Paul, at last.“Yes; she seems homely and nice. Takes pride in her house.”“Humph! Yes.”“Widow, of course?”“Yes: didn’t you see she was?”“Yes.”“Then why did you ask?”“For confirmation. Is yours a bad cigar?”“No. Why?”“Because it don’t seem to act as a sedative. A good one always makes me calm and agreeable.”“Then you think I am disagreeable?” said the old man, sharply.“Not to put too fine a point upon it—yes; very.”“I always am,” said the old gentleman, with a harsh laugh. “What do you think of my niece?”“Very pretty,” said Geoffrey, quietly.“Oh! You think so?”“Yes. Don’t you?”“Humph! Yes. But, look here, young man, you are from London, are you not?”“Yes.”“Then none of your town manners, please. No putting silly notions in that girl’s head. It’s full enough already.”“Who? I? Put silly notions in her head?” said Geoffrey, showing his white teeth as he removed his cigar from his lips and exhaled a great cloud of smoke. “Don’t be afraid, old gentleman. I’m a man without a heart. Besides which, I’m engaged.”“More fool you. Bah! Look at me.”“I have looked at you,” said Geoffrey, coolly; “I know you by heart already.”“Bah!” ejaculated the old gentleman, testily. “Engaged—married—insanity! A young man madly makes up his mind to keep a woman and a lot of children in bread and butter, like poor Rumsey, our doctor. Thinks it is going to be a pleasant burthen, and dreams on till he wakes—poor devil!”“You don’t approve, then, of matrimony?”“Approve? No, I don’t. I have seen too much of it in others. Young half-brother of mine marries that woman there; keeps poor in consequence; dies poor, leaving her and her child poor—paupers both of ’em.”“Hah! yes,” said Geoffrey; “there are more poor than rich in the world.”“Their own fault. Don’t you make a poor man of yourself.”“Don’t mean to,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “My mistress—my wife, if you like—is Science. Do you like bad smells?”“Do I likewhat?”“Bad smells. Because my chemicals will be down in a few days. I try experiments, and sometimes strong odours arise.”“Humph!” growled Uncle Paul. “Open the window, then. So your wife’s Science, is she?”“Bless her: yes,” cried Geoffrey, emphatically. “She’s a tricksy coquette, though.”“So’s Madge, there,” said the old man.“Is she?” said Geoffrey, looking at him, curiously. “I say, old gentleman, you are not very complimentary to your relatives; but I understand your hints: so look here. I’m not a lady’s man, and your niece will be free from any pursuit of mine; and if she gets—what do you call it?—setting her cap at me, she’ll give me up in four-and-twenty hours in disgust.”“On account of Miss Science, eh?” said the old gentleman, grimly. “But I thought you said you were an engineer?”“I am.”“Then—then, why are you here? got an appointment?”“Look here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “as we are to be such near neighbours, and you evidently would like me to make a clean breast of it, here it all is:—I am a mining engineer; a bit of a chemist; I have no appointment; and I have come down to get one.”“Then you’ve come to the wrong place, young man.”“So Mr Penwynn told me.”“Oh, you’ve been there, have you?”“Yes.”“Seen his daughter?”“No, nor do I want to see her,” said Geoffrey, throwing the end of his cheroot out of the window. “I’ll take another of those cheroots, sir. They’re strong and full-flavoured; I like them. So you think I’ve come to the wrong place, do you?”“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, passing the blackest and strongest cheroot in his case. “Of course I do. The mining is all going to the dogs. The companies are one-half of them bankrupt, and the other half pay no dividends. The only people who make money are a set of scoundrelly adventurers who prospect for tin, and when they have found what they call a likely spot—”Here there was a pause, while the old gentleman also lit a fresh cheroot.”—They get up a company; play games with the shares, and get fools to take them, whose money goes down a big hole in the earth.”“And never comes up again, eh?”“Never?” said the old man, emphatically.“Ever been bitten that way?” said Geoffrey, smiling.“Yes: once,” snarled the other. “They got a hundred pounds out of me over a promising-looking affair—that mine down yonder on the point—Wheal Carnac. Smooth-tongued scoundrel talked me over. Just such a fellow as you.”“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, smiling.“Been a lesson to me, though, that I’ve never forgotten.”“And yet there is money to be made out of mines,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “With proper care, judgment, and good management there are plenty of lapsed undertakings that could be revived, and would pay their shareholders well.”“Make Wheal Carnac pay, then, and my hundred pounds something better than waste paper.”“I do not see why not,” said Geoffrey, earnestly.Old Mr Paul pushed back his chair and made it scroop loudly on the summer-house floor, as he bared his yellow teeth in a grin.“I thought so,” he exclaimed, with a harsh chuckle. “There, out with it, man! What’s the mine? Is it Wheal Ruby, or Bottom Friendship, or Evening Star, or what? How many shares are you going to stick into some noodle or another?”“I sell shares? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Geoffrey. “I never held or sold one in my life. No, sir, I am no share-jobber. I have come down here to carve my way in quite different fashion.”“In granite?” sneered the old man.“In the world, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, rising. “And now I must be off. I want to have a good look round. I see that you and I will get on capitally together. Whenever you are in the humour throw open your door, and I’ll open mine, and we’ll quarrel. I enjoy a good row.”He nodded shortly, and strode off, his stout boots rattling the shingle stones of the path, and the gate giving a loud bang behind him, while directly after the echo of his steps could be heard as he clattered down over the rough granite paving towards the shore.“Curse him!” cried the old man, getting up and craning his neck out of the summer-house window to stare after his late companion. “He’s a great ugly, overgrown puppy: that’s what he is, and I was an old idiot to bring him up here. Insulted me. Laughed in my face. As good as told me that I was an old fool. Never mind: I’ll bring him down, big as he is, and he’ll do to keep out the parson. Here! hi! somebody, Madge, Madge,” he shouted, reseating himself, and banging the floor with his cane.There was no reply.“Madge!” roared the old man again, beating the table for a change.“Madge has gone out, dear,” said plump Mrs Mullion, hurrying out to the summer-house.“Where’s my newspaper?” cried the old man, angrily. “I never get my newspaper to the time. Do you hear, I want my newspaper. If you can’t have me properly attended to by that cat of a girl, I declare I’ll go. Do you hear? I’ll go. I’m looking out now for a plot of land to build a house where I can be in peace and properly attended to. Do you hear? I want my newspaper—‘The Times.’”“There it is, dear,” said Mrs Mullion, upon whom this storm did not seem to have the slightest effect, “you are sitting upon it.”“Then why, in the name of Buddha, was the paper put in my chair? A table’s the place for a paper. Where’s Madge?”“Gone out for a walk, dear.”“She’s always gone for a walk. I wish to good—”Rustle—rustle—rustle of the paper.”—To goodness I had nev—”Rustle—rustle—rustle—”—Had never come to this con—”Rustle—rustle—rustle. Bang in the middle and double up.”—Come to this confounded place. Hang Madge! She’ll get into disgrace one of these—and—eh—um—oh. Hah! at last! um—um—um. ‘North-west provinces. This important question came on last night,’ um—um—um.”The old man’s irritable voice toned down into a hum like that of a gigantic bee, for Uncle Paul was safe now to be in peace and good temper for a couple of hours at least over the debates in his newspaper, and Mrs Mullion, as unruffled as ever, was already back indoors, thinking over her half-brother’s words, and wondering whether they would ever prove true.

“You see, you are quite a stranger,” said the old gentleman, in a kind of gruff apology; “and I’m obliged to look after that poor woman’s interests. Now, then,” he continued, leading the way into the garden, “light up and come into the look-out, boy; I want to talk to you.”

Geoffrey followed him, and as soon as they were seated they smoked and stared at each other in silence for a time, the young man rather enjoying his elder’s keen scrutiny.

“Pleasant woman, my sister-in-law,” said Mr Paul, at last.

“Yes; she seems homely and nice. Takes pride in her house.”

“Humph! Yes.”

“Widow, of course?”

“Yes: didn’t you see she was?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“For confirmation. Is yours a bad cigar?”

“No. Why?”

“Because it don’t seem to act as a sedative. A good one always makes me calm and agreeable.”

“Then you think I am disagreeable?” said the old man, sharply.

“Not to put too fine a point upon it—yes; very.”

“I always am,” said the old gentleman, with a harsh laugh. “What do you think of my niece?”

“Very pretty,” said Geoffrey, quietly.

“Oh! You think so?”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

“Humph! Yes. But, look here, young man, you are from London, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then none of your town manners, please. No putting silly notions in that girl’s head. It’s full enough already.”

“Who? I? Put silly notions in her head?” said Geoffrey, showing his white teeth as he removed his cigar from his lips and exhaled a great cloud of smoke. “Don’t be afraid, old gentleman. I’m a man without a heart. Besides which, I’m engaged.”

“More fool you. Bah! Look at me.”

“I have looked at you,” said Geoffrey, coolly; “I know you by heart already.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the old gentleman, testily. “Engaged—married—insanity! A young man madly makes up his mind to keep a woman and a lot of children in bread and butter, like poor Rumsey, our doctor. Thinks it is going to be a pleasant burthen, and dreams on till he wakes—poor devil!”

“You don’t approve, then, of matrimony?”

“Approve? No, I don’t. I have seen too much of it in others. Young half-brother of mine marries that woman there; keeps poor in consequence; dies poor, leaving her and her child poor—paupers both of ’em.”

“Hah! yes,” said Geoffrey; “there are more poor than rich in the world.”

“Their own fault. Don’t you make a poor man of yourself.”

“Don’t mean to,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “My mistress—my wife, if you like—is Science. Do you like bad smells?”

“Do I likewhat?”

“Bad smells. Because my chemicals will be down in a few days. I try experiments, and sometimes strong odours arise.”

“Humph!” growled Uncle Paul. “Open the window, then. So your wife’s Science, is she?”

“Bless her: yes,” cried Geoffrey, emphatically. “She’s a tricksy coquette, though.”

“So’s Madge, there,” said the old man.

“Is she?” said Geoffrey, looking at him, curiously. “I say, old gentleman, you are not very complimentary to your relatives; but I understand your hints: so look here. I’m not a lady’s man, and your niece will be free from any pursuit of mine; and if she gets—what do you call it?—setting her cap at me, she’ll give me up in four-and-twenty hours in disgust.”

“On account of Miss Science, eh?” said the old gentleman, grimly. “But I thought you said you were an engineer?”

“I am.”

“Then—then, why are you here? got an appointment?”

“Look here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “as we are to be such near neighbours, and you evidently would like me to make a clean breast of it, here it all is:—I am a mining engineer; a bit of a chemist; I have no appointment; and I have come down to get one.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place, young man.”

“So Mr Penwynn told me.”

“Oh, you’ve been there, have you?”

“Yes.”

“Seen his daughter?”

“No, nor do I want to see her,” said Geoffrey, throwing the end of his cheroot out of the window. “I’ll take another of those cheroots, sir. They’re strong and full-flavoured; I like them. So you think I’ve come to the wrong place, do you?”

“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, passing the blackest and strongest cheroot in his case. “Of course I do. The mining is all going to the dogs. The companies are one-half of them bankrupt, and the other half pay no dividends. The only people who make money are a set of scoundrelly adventurers who prospect for tin, and when they have found what they call a likely spot—”

Here there was a pause, while the old gentleman also lit a fresh cheroot.

”—They get up a company; play games with the shares, and get fools to take them, whose money goes down a big hole in the earth.”

“And never comes up again, eh?”

“Never?” said the old man, emphatically.

“Ever been bitten that way?” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“Yes: once,” snarled the other. “They got a hundred pounds out of me over a promising-looking affair—that mine down yonder on the point—Wheal Carnac. Smooth-tongued scoundrel talked me over. Just such a fellow as you.”

“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“Been a lesson to me, though, that I’ve never forgotten.”

“And yet there is money to be made out of mines,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “With proper care, judgment, and good management there are plenty of lapsed undertakings that could be revived, and would pay their shareholders well.”

“Make Wheal Carnac pay, then, and my hundred pounds something better than waste paper.”

“I do not see why not,” said Geoffrey, earnestly.

Old Mr Paul pushed back his chair and made it scroop loudly on the summer-house floor, as he bared his yellow teeth in a grin.

“I thought so,” he exclaimed, with a harsh chuckle. “There, out with it, man! What’s the mine? Is it Wheal Ruby, or Bottom Friendship, or Evening Star, or what? How many shares are you going to stick into some noodle or another?”

“I sell shares? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Geoffrey. “I never held or sold one in my life. No, sir, I am no share-jobber. I have come down here to carve my way in quite different fashion.”

“In granite?” sneered the old man.

“In the world, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, rising. “And now I must be off. I want to have a good look round. I see that you and I will get on capitally together. Whenever you are in the humour throw open your door, and I’ll open mine, and we’ll quarrel. I enjoy a good row.”

He nodded shortly, and strode off, his stout boots rattling the shingle stones of the path, and the gate giving a loud bang behind him, while directly after the echo of his steps could be heard as he clattered down over the rough granite paving towards the shore.

“Curse him!” cried the old man, getting up and craning his neck out of the summer-house window to stare after his late companion. “He’s a great ugly, overgrown puppy: that’s what he is, and I was an old idiot to bring him up here. Insulted me. Laughed in my face. As good as told me that I was an old fool. Never mind: I’ll bring him down, big as he is, and he’ll do to keep out the parson. Here! hi! somebody, Madge, Madge,” he shouted, reseating himself, and banging the floor with his cane.

There was no reply.

“Madge!” roared the old man again, beating the table for a change.

“Madge has gone out, dear,” said plump Mrs Mullion, hurrying out to the summer-house.

“Where’s my newspaper?” cried the old man, angrily. “I never get my newspaper to the time. Do you hear, I want my newspaper. If you can’t have me properly attended to by that cat of a girl, I declare I’ll go. Do you hear? I’ll go. I’m looking out now for a plot of land to build a house where I can be in peace and properly attended to. Do you hear? I want my newspaper—‘The Times.’”

“There it is, dear,” said Mrs Mullion, upon whom this storm did not seem to have the slightest effect, “you are sitting upon it.”

“Then why, in the name of Buddha, was the paper put in my chair? A table’s the place for a paper. Where’s Madge?”

“Gone out for a walk, dear.”

“She’s always gone for a walk. I wish to good—”

Rustle—rustle—rustle of the paper.

”—To goodness I had nev—”

Rustle—rustle—rustle—

”—Had never come to this con—”

Rustle—rustle—rustle. Bang in the middle and double up.

”—Come to this confounded place. Hang Madge! She’ll get into disgrace one of these—and—eh—um—oh. Hah! at last! um—um—um. ‘North-west provinces. This important question came on last night,’ um—um—um.”

The old man’s irritable voice toned down into a hum like that of a gigantic bee, for Uncle Paul was safe now to be in peace and good temper for a couple of hours at least over the debates in his newspaper, and Mrs Mullion, as unruffled as ever, was already back indoors, thinking over her half-brother’s words, and wondering whether they would ever prove true.

Chapter Eight.Geoffrey Makes a Discovery.There were plenty of heads thrust out of the granite cottages on either side of the steep way as Geoffrey strode on, ready to give back frank, open look for curious gaze, and to take notice that the people were dark and swarthy; that there were plenty of brown fishing-nets, and blackened corks, and swollen bladders, hanging from the walls, in company with a pair or two of sculls, a hitcher and a mast from some small boat, with now and then what seemed to be a human being split and hung up to dry after the fashion of a haddock, but which proved to be only an oilskin fishing-suit.At one cottage door a huge pair of fisher’s boots stood out in the sun, as if they were being worn by some invisible prince or Cornish giant. At another door sat a woman cleaning a long, snaky-looking hake, opposite to a neighbour who was busily counting pilchards, which had evidently been brought up from one of the boats by a big, brown, bluff-looking man, who, from top to toe, seemed as if he had some idea of going into the harlequin profession, so spangled was he with silver scales.“Can I get down to the beach this way?” Geoffrey asked of the latter.“Can ’ee get down to ba-ach this way! Iss my son,” said the man, in a sing-song tone; and, after a very steep descent, Geoffrey found himself where he desired to go.Not upon a soft, sandy, or pleasant shingly beach, but upon one literally paved with great masses of rock—black shale, granite, and gneiss—over which the huge Atlantic waves came foaming in stormy weather, rolling and polishing the surface with the rounded boulders, which seemed to average the size of a goodly cheese. Even now the rocky promontory that ran out and sheltered the little place and its tiny harbour was fringed with foaming water as the blue waves came slowly rolling in, to break on the black rocks, run up and fall back in silvery cascades to the heaving sea.Geoffrey’s keen eyes scanned the rocks, with their great white veins of milky quartz; running through the beautiful sea-scape on his left, the piled-up rocks upon his right, and then they rested on the grey engine-house upon the promontory—the mark of the great disused unsuccessful mine that had been pointed out to him as Wheal Carnac.This place had a sort of fascination for him, and, clambering up, as he drew nearer he noticed every thing—the roughly blasted-out road, the furnace-house, so arranged that its chimney trailed over the ground like a huge serpent along the slope of the cliff, and higher and higher, till, quite a hundred and fifty yards away, it ended in a masonry shaft, towering up on the very summit of the cliff.“What a blast they could get up here!” muttered Geoffrey, as he leaped from rock to rock, till, quite breathless, he reached the great tongue of land, and found that by clambering laboriously up a rough path he could stand on the chine of the promontory and look down upon the deep blue sea upon the other side, quite a mile away, and where the rugged shore was one mass of foam.But though the sight was grand it was not practical, and, soon descending, he made his way towards the great engine-house, to find everywhere traces of wasted enterprise, followed by ruin and neglect. A deep mine shaft had been sunk close to the edge that sloped down to the shore, and from a platform of rock where he stood he could see quite a vast embankment of thedébristhat had been toilsomely dug out and allowed to run down into the sea.There were granite buildings, but they were windowless, and a glance showed that the machinery had been torn out, to leave the place a ruin.“I wonder how many thousands were sunk here,” said Geoffrey, half aloud, “before the heart-sick proprietors gave it up, perhaps just on the eve of a great discovery. What a chance now, if there are good tin-bearing strata, for a fresh set of proprietors to take up the others’ work and carry it on to success.”“It looks tempting!” he muttered, as he went on from place to place, picking up specimens of the rock that had been chipped out and thrown from the shaft, and examining each piece attentively with a pocket-lens. “That’s antimony; yes, that’s tin,” he continued, as he examined a piece of reddish quartz, on one side of which sparkled some black grains, looking as unlike tin as can be imagined.“Dash of copper there,” he said, after a time, as he went on and on, till he stopped at the edge of the profound square shaft, which went down into darkness, right below where the waves beat upon the shore.“How deep, I wonder?” he said, as he gazed down into the pitchy blackness, and then threw in one of the fragments of rock which he held in his hand, listening attentively for some considerable time till there came up a weirdly strange, hollow, echoing plash, full of strange whisperings, each telling of the terrible depth down to where the water lay, filling up the profundities of the awe-inspiring place.“Thousands upon thousands of pounds must have gone down that hole?” mused Geoffrey, seating himself on the very edge, with his legs hanging down into the shaft, into which he gazed as if it fascinated him and something was drawing him downward to his death.“What a pit for a fellow to fall into!” he said, with a shudder. “He might slip or jump in, or throw in his enemy or any one he wanted to get rid of, and not a soul would be the wiser. It’s a regular gateway into the other world.“What stuff!” he said directly after, with a half-laugh. “Why, I’m turning morbid. It’s a gateway to the golden land of success, and if I had a chance I’d make it pay.”He rose directly after, and with each wave as it broke below making his steps inaudible even to himself, he went on, peering first into one building and then into another, all seeming to be built on a goodly, if not extravagant, scale, which he noted at once for future purposes.He crossed a patch of heathery turf next, and had nearly reached the doorway of a low shed-like place, probably the stables for the horses that had been used in connection with the mine, when he stopped short, for mingled with the low roar of the sea he seemed to hear voices.He stopped short and listened, but heard nothing more.“Ghosts of dead and gone disappointed shareholders, or the noises of the Kobolds of the mine,” he said laughingly, and stepping forward he entered the doorway to find that to him, coming out of the full blaze of the sun, the place was very dark. He stretched out his hands to avoid running against any thing, and hardly knowing why, only that he seemed to be drawn on to investigate the place, he went forward, with the darkness growing lighter, when he stopped short again.This time there was no mistake, for he heard a sob, and before he could make up his mind what to do, he heard a woman’s voice speaking in tones of appeal.

There were plenty of heads thrust out of the granite cottages on either side of the steep way as Geoffrey strode on, ready to give back frank, open look for curious gaze, and to take notice that the people were dark and swarthy; that there were plenty of brown fishing-nets, and blackened corks, and swollen bladders, hanging from the walls, in company with a pair or two of sculls, a hitcher and a mast from some small boat, with now and then what seemed to be a human being split and hung up to dry after the fashion of a haddock, but which proved to be only an oilskin fishing-suit.

At one cottage door a huge pair of fisher’s boots stood out in the sun, as if they were being worn by some invisible prince or Cornish giant. At another door sat a woman cleaning a long, snaky-looking hake, opposite to a neighbour who was busily counting pilchards, which had evidently been brought up from one of the boats by a big, brown, bluff-looking man, who, from top to toe, seemed as if he had some idea of going into the harlequin profession, so spangled was he with silver scales.

“Can I get down to the beach this way?” Geoffrey asked of the latter.

“Can ’ee get down to ba-ach this way! Iss my son,” said the man, in a sing-song tone; and, after a very steep descent, Geoffrey found himself where he desired to go.

Not upon a soft, sandy, or pleasant shingly beach, but upon one literally paved with great masses of rock—black shale, granite, and gneiss—over which the huge Atlantic waves came foaming in stormy weather, rolling and polishing the surface with the rounded boulders, which seemed to average the size of a goodly cheese. Even now the rocky promontory that ran out and sheltered the little place and its tiny harbour was fringed with foaming water as the blue waves came slowly rolling in, to break on the black rocks, run up and fall back in silvery cascades to the heaving sea.

Geoffrey’s keen eyes scanned the rocks, with their great white veins of milky quartz; running through the beautiful sea-scape on his left, the piled-up rocks upon his right, and then they rested on the grey engine-house upon the promontory—the mark of the great disused unsuccessful mine that had been pointed out to him as Wheal Carnac.

This place had a sort of fascination for him, and, clambering up, as he drew nearer he noticed every thing—the roughly blasted-out road, the furnace-house, so arranged that its chimney trailed over the ground like a huge serpent along the slope of the cliff, and higher and higher, till, quite a hundred and fifty yards away, it ended in a masonry shaft, towering up on the very summit of the cliff.

“What a blast they could get up here!” muttered Geoffrey, as he leaped from rock to rock, till, quite breathless, he reached the great tongue of land, and found that by clambering laboriously up a rough path he could stand on the chine of the promontory and look down upon the deep blue sea upon the other side, quite a mile away, and where the rugged shore was one mass of foam.

But though the sight was grand it was not practical, and, soon descending, he made his way towards the great engine-house, to find everywhere traces of wasted enterprise, followed by ruin and neglect. A deep mine shaft had been sunk close to the edge that sloped down to the shore, and from a platform of rock where he stood he could see quite a vast embankment of thedébristhat had been toilsomely dug out and allowed to run down into the sea.

There were granite buildings, but they were windowless, and a glance showed that the machinery had been torn out, to leave the place a ruin.

“I wonder how many thousands were sunk here,” said Geoffrey, half aloud, “before the heart-sick proprietors gave it up, perhaps just on the eve of a great discovery. What a chance now, if there are good tin-bearing strata, for a fresh set of proprietors to take up the others’ work and carry it on to success.”

“It looks tempting!” he muttered, as he went on from place to place, picking up specimens of the rock that had been chipped out and thrown from the shaft, and examining each piece attentively with a pocket-lens. “That’s antimony; yes, that’s tin,” he continued, as he examined a piece of reddish quartz, on one side of which sparkled some black grains, looking as unlike tin as can be imagined.

“Dash of copper there,” he said, after a time, as he went on and on, till he stopped at the edge of the profound square shaft, which went down into darkness, right below where the waves beat upon the shore.

“How deep, I wonder?” he said, as he gazed down into the pitchy blackness, and then threw in one of the fragments of rock which he held in his hand, listening attentively for some considerable time till there came up a weirdly strange, hollow, echoing plash, full of strange whisperings, each telling of the terrible depth down to where the water lay, filling up the profundities of the awe-inspiring place.

“Thousands upon thousands of pounds must have gone down that hole?” mused Geoffrey, seating himself on the very edge, with his legs hanging down into the shaft, into which he gazed as if it fascinated him and something was drawing him downward to his death.

“What a pit for a fellow to fall into!” he said, with a shudder. “He might slip or jump in, or throw in his enemy or any one he wanted to get rid of, and not a soul would be the wiser. It’s a regular gateway into the other world.

“What stuff!” he said directly after, with a half-laugh. “Why, I’m turning morbid. It’s a gateway to the golden land of success, and if I had a chance I’d make it pay.”

He rose directly after, and with each wave as it broke below making his steps inaudible even to himself, he went on, peering first into one building and then into another, all seeming to be built on a goodly, if not extravagant, scale, which he noted at once for future purposes.

He crossed a patch of heathery turf next, and had nearly reached the doorway of a low shed-like place, probably the stables for the horses that had been used in connection with the mine, when he stopped short, for mingled with the low roar of the sea he seemed to hear voices.

He stopped short and listened, but heard nothing more.

“Ghosts of dead and gone disappointed shareholders, or the noises of the Kobolds of the mine,” he said laughingly, and stepping forward he entered the doorway to find that to him, coming out of the full blaze of the sun, the place was very dark. He stretched out his hands to avoid running against any thing, and hardly knowing why, only that he seemed to be drawn on to investigate the place, he went forward, with the darkness growing lighter, when he stopped short again.

This time there was no mistake, for he heard a sob, and before he could make up his mind what to do, he heard a woman’s voice speaking in tones of appeal.

Chapter Nine.More of the Vicar’s People.“I really cannot come again!” exclaimed somebody, piteously, as Geoffrey stood there half-paralysed by surprise.“What nonsense!” said a man’s voice. “You can if—”Geoffrey heard no more, for he beat a rapid retreat back into the sunshine, and hurried away, with a comical expression of vexation upon his countenance.“Lovers, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Hang ’em, they’re everywhere! Fancy finding them in this out-of-the-way, forsaken place of all others in the world. Why, hang me! if I don’t believe that’s why some women go up Mont Blanc—they go up to court.”He strode away, whistling a merry air, little thinking what an influence all this would have upon his future life; and, thrusting his hands down into his pockets, he went on, leaping from rock to rock, making for the other side of the promontory, evidently intending to see as much of the country as he could before returning to dinner.“Why, hallo!” he suddenly exclaimed, stopping short. “Surely I’ve heard one of those voices before? No: impossible!” he said, “I don’t know any ladies down here.”Going on again, he soon crossed a sort of heathery down, dotted with masses of rock, which cropped up here and there; sent several couples of agile sheep bounding away, and noted that they were linked together at the neck; drew long, bracing breaths of the fresh, pure air; and, after skirting along the edge on the far side of the promontory, he went on inland, comparing the glorious sea to violet and gold, as it gleamed in the sunshine and reflected the brighter tints of the cliffs.He soon hit upon a foot-track, which evidently led towards Carnac if he turned to the right, while on the left it led—“Let’s see where!” said Geoffrey.Half an hour’s walking showed that it led onward to a farther point on the sea, and he hesitated as to whether he should go on. A glance at his watch told him that he had ample time, and as there was another ruined engine-house evidently by the track, he walked on, finding that the path led direct to the side of another mining venture, but evidently of much older date, and he quite started as he found how near the path went by a yawning shaft.It had probably once been protected by a wall of loosely piled-up stones, but these lay scattered here and there, while the great engine-house had half fallen, the chimney only being intact.“How dangerous,” thought Geoffrey, as he gazed down into the shaft, and noted how the grass and heath had grown over the embankment ofdébriswhich ran down in a slope landward, joining a precipitous descent from the engine-house, which stood upon a ridge quite a hundred and fifty feet above the sea, which ran in diamond sparkling cascades over the rocks that fringed the shore nearly a quarter of a mile away.“They seem to have always perched these places on a ridge,” he mused, as he looked into the ruined engine-house, and laughingly wondered whether there would be any lovers there.“Quite a wonder!” he exclaimed, as he glanced round the ruin, and, finding nothing to excite his interest, he returned to the well-worn edge of the shaft.He could not look straight down, for the top had crumbled in, making a sharp slope all round the edge; so, laughing at himself, he picked up one of the great lichen-covered pieces of granite that had formed the protecting wall, hurled it from him, and listened till with a roar came up the sound of a tremendous plash.“That’s about a hundred and fifty feet down to the water,” he said aloud. “I believe it comes natural to a fellow to want to throw stones down every hole he sees. I’ll be bound to say that Cain and Abel used to do just the same. Adam never was a boy.”He stood thinking for a few minutes, these old mine shafts attracting him greatly.“I wonder whether any one was ever thrown down that shaft?” he said aloud. “She would never come out alive.”He found himself wondering again why his thoughts had taken such a turn, and why he should have said “she.”“What nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I shall be writing a romance of a ruined mine directly,” and going on to the slope ofdébrishe began kicking out and examining the old fragments that had been dug from the bowels of the earth, taking out his pocket-lens, and minutely inspecting each piece for traces of metallic ore, but finding little to reward his pains.“There was a lot of money wasted here, I’ll be bound,” he exclaimed, as he turned off and once more began to follow the track.“It’s a grand coast-line,” he thought, as he walked on past and under the huge masses of grey granite, dotted with green fern and pink stonecrop, till he found the path begin to descend rapidly into a ravine, full of ferny nooks and spots made musical by the dripping water of the springs. The place had very precipitous sides, with a bright rushing stream foaming on towards the sea, where it spread its waters over the pure sands of a tiny cove.There were a couple of boats drawn up below a large straggling granite cottage, built evidently a portion at a time upon a shelf of rock well out of the reach of the waves; and upon a platform in front of the unlovely place, hedged in with stones, was some attempt at a garden.So steep was the track down as he approached the place, Geoffrey could easily have leaped from this slope on to the cottage roof, which was as rugged as the walls, and altogether the dwelling had a wild, uncouth aspect, in no wise improved by some old ship wood and lumber lying about.But this was all redeemed by the beauty of the little cove, with the breaking waves which seemed to sweep up the waters of the little stream after its gurgling course, amidst lichenous stones from where it had sprung high up the ravine out of a bower of many-tinted greens.“Just the spot for a smuggler or a wrecker, or a fellow to build a house to boat and fish, and live away from the world. I should like to lodge here,” he continued, as his eyes wandered over the scene. “Wish I could paint, and—ah! you would come in capitally. Hallo! she’s coming to me. No, my lass,” he said, as if speaking to her, though she was too distant to hear, “it’s labour in vain. I don’t want a guide to any caves or dripping wells, or to buy specimens of ore, spar, or the like. By Jove, though, she’s very handsome. Why, she must be a gypsy.”This was said as a young woman came into sight from the cottage below, looked up, and on catching sight of the visitor seemed to speak to some one within, and then hurried up to meet him.As Geoffrey remarked, she was very handsome, but it was a wild, rugged, half-savage kind of beauty. Dark-eyed, brown-skinned, with a ruddy flush which showed how little she sheltered from the weather, while her abundant black hair was carelessly twisted up, and hung down in a massive knot between her shoulders. Her dress was of the commonest cotton, and slovenly made, a short print gown being tied round her waist, over a bright-coloured serge petticoat, while in one hand she held a print hood. But, in spite of her ungraceful clothing, Geoffrey could see that she was lithe, strong, and active, and there was no little natural grace in the undulations of her unfettered form, as she hurried up to meet him.“Come here and buy some sweets,” she said, in a voice as full of command as entreaty, and as she looked him boldly yet curiously in the face, he saw that her lips were red and full, over large but beautifully white teeth.“Sweets? Nonsense, my lass. I don’t eat sweets. What cove is this?”“Gwennas,” said the girl. “Come down and buy some sweets. Here’s the money.”Geoffrey stared, as the girl held out a penny in her large, well-shaped hand.“Poor lass! A love case for a sovereign. She’s crazy,” said Geoffrey to himself, and, changing his manner, he took the coin from the girl’s hand, receiving, at the same time, a smile for reward. “What’s your name, my lass?” he said aloud.“Bessie—Elizabeth Prawle,” said the girl, shortly. “You’re a stranger.”“Yes,” he said, looking at her sidewise. “Do they sell sweets here?”“Yes,” said the girl, sharply.“And you are very fond of them, eh?”They were going side by side towards the cottage, when the girl faced round, looked at him in a puzzled way for a moment, and then laughed merrily.“They are not for me,” she said, sharply, as they reached the rough rocky platform in front of the cottage. “Here, father, this gentleman is going to buy some sweets.”“Is he? Oh!”This was uttered in a low, hoarse growl, by a strongly-built, rugged fisher-looking man, in a blue Jersey, and very thick flannel trousers, braced up right over his chest. He wore no hat, but a shaggy crop of grizzled hair shaded his weather-beaten, inflamed face, as he sat on a block of granite, as rugged as himself, overhauling a long fishing-line, whose hooks he was sticking in pieces of blackened cork.He looked up for a moment frowningly at the visitor, with a pair of dark piercing eyes, drew a great gnarled hand across his mouth to wipe away the tobacco-juice, lowered his eyes, got up, stooped, and displayed an enormous patch upon his trousers, reseated himself, and went on with his work.“Come in,” said the girl, quickly, and she led the way into a large low room, roughly but well furnished, and scrupulously clean. It was a compound of rustic farmhouse kitchen with a flavour of parlour and ship’s chandlery or boating store. For along the massive beams, and wherever a great peg could be driven in, hung nets, lines, and other fishing gear. A ship’s lantern hung here; there was a binnacle there. Odds and ends of cabin furniture were mingled with well-polished Windsor chairs, and brass decorated chests of drawers. There was plenty of ornamentation too. Shells, a sword-fish, dried marine animals, sponges and seaweeds, masses of coral, fragments of bright spar, and some gay pieces of china, lay upon chimney-piece and shelves; in addition to which there was the model of a full-rigged ship in full sail, fitted up in a great glass case.“Quite an old curiosity shop,” thought Geoffrey, as he saw all this at a glance, and noted that the well-cleaned floor was sprinkled with sand, save where a great home-made shred rug lay in front of the bright black fireplace, on whose hob a great copper kettle shone from its dark corner like a misted sun.The light came through the open door, and formed quite a Rembrandtish picture in the low, darkened room, falling as it did in mote-sparkling rays, like a band of sunbeams, right across a bent figure in an old well-washed chintz-covered armchair.The first thing that struck Geoffrey was the figure’s occupation. The day was warm, but she was seated very close to the fire, airing a garment carefully spread over her knees, and from which came a most unmistakable odour of scorching, reminding the visitor very strongly of his late visit to Mrs Mullion’s on the cliff. A pair of very thin white hands were busy adding mesh after mesh to a herring net, while as they entered, the bent down head was eagerly raised, and Geoffrey saw a face whose white hair and pallid, piteous look, told its own tale, as the weary-looking eyes scanned his face.“Another customer, mother,” said the girl, quickly. “Oh, why don’t you be more careful? you’ll burn yourself to death.”“It’s cold, Bessie; it’s cold, dear, but that’s well—that’s well,” said the invalid, whose hands began to tremble, so that she missed a stitch or two in her net. “Be quick, dear, be quick.”“Yes, mother. Did you say a pen’orth, sir?”“No, I want sixpen’orth, my lass,” said Geoffrey.The girl darted a grateful look at him as she took a covered glass jar from the window-sill, and as she rattled the coloured sticks of candy which were its contents, Geoffrey heard a sigh of satisfaction from the invalid, a glance showing him that the head was once more bent down over the net.“Fine weather, Mrs Prawle,” said Geoffrey, hazarding a shot, as the girl busily rustled a paper bag.“Yes, yes,” said the invalid, looking up at him, “I suppose it is, sir. I hope you will come again.”The girl darted a quick look at him.“Oh, yes! of course,” replied Geoffrey, whose eyes wandered over the pitiable picture before him. “I shall come again.”“I’m so anxious to get up a connection, sir,” continued the invalid, “and Gwennas Cove is rather out of the way.”“I should think it is—rather!” said Geoffrey to himself, and he could hardly refrain from smiling at the poor woman’s idea of getting up a connection in that wild spot.“Yes, Bess, take the money. Thank you kindly, sir. Good-day, sir; good-day;” and the invalid began to carefully turn the airing garment upon her knees, though there was no more dampness in it than in one of the red-hot pieces of wood over which she hung.Geoffrey felt disposed to stay, but his time was short, and, after a cheery “good-day,” he strode out, followed by the girl, to find that the rugged-looking old man was gone, patch and all; but the girl hurried on before him for a few yards, as if to be out of hearing at the cottage, and then held out her hand.“What? Good-by!” said Geoffrey, smiling, and he held out his own.“No, no, nonsense,” said the girl, flushing. “Give me the sweeties, and take your money back.”“Then you carry that on to please the old lady, eh?” said Geoffrey.“Yes, of course,” replied the girl, sharply. “Didn’t you know?”“Not I; but I guessed as much.”“Mother’s been ill these twenty years, and has to be carried to her bed. She thinks she’s a burthen, so we do it to humour her.”“I thought as much.”“Then why don’t you take your money?” said a hoarse, rough voice, that chased away all the sentiment of the affair, and Geoffrey started round to see that the fierce-looking old man was leaning over a block of granite, his arms crossed, and his chin resting upon them. “Take your money and go.”“No,” said Geoffrey, in his off-hand way. “No: thanks. I want the sweets for the children.”“Yours?” said the old fellow, roughly.“Mine? Hang it, man; no.”Geoffrey turned to the girl, and looked at her, laughing merrily; but this seemed to irritate the old man, who came fiercely from behind the granite block, thrusting his hands far down into his pockets, and scowling angrily.“Look here, young man,” he said, hoarsely, “you’re a stranger here, and don’t know us.”“Not yet,” said Geoffrey, “but I dare say I soon shall.”“Take your money, and don’t come again,” said the old man, hoarsely.“You are a nice, pleasant-spoken old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, nonchalantly, as he coolly opened the paper bag, and took out one of the sticks of candy. “Have a sweet?”The man uttered a fierce growl that sounded like an oath, and took a step forward in a menacing way, but the girl sprang forward, and threw her arm across his chest.“D’yer want me to hurl you off the rocks?” he said savagely.“Be quiet, father,” cried the girl. “The gentleman means no harm.”“Go in, Bess,” he shouted, and, shaking her off, he went close up to Geoffrey, who did not give way an inch, but looked full in the fierce, repulsive face thrust close to his, till the old man lowered his eyes, and stepped on one side, muttering angrily.“Do you always treat strangers like this, Master Prawle?” said Geoffrey, smiling.“Go away, I tell ye,” said the old man, fiercely. “We want no dealings with the people.”“Don’t anger father, sir,” said the girl, who, however, seemed to be in no wise put out by the old man’s savage resentment.“Not I, my girl,” replied Geoffrey; “but what is the matter with your mother?”“She fell off the cliff one night,” said the girl, quickly.“Tell him to go, Bess,” growled her father. “We don’t want him here.”“I asked the gentleman to come, father,” said the girl. Then, turning to Geoffrey, “Thank you kindly, sir. It pleases mother.”“Don’t name it, my lass,” replied Geoffrey, smiling, and the girl looked at him very fixedly, as she watched every turn in his frank, open face. “Good-day,” he continued. “Good-day, Master Prawle.”The old man scowled at him by way of reply, and then stood watching him till he had climbed back to the edge of the ravine, where, turning to glance down, Geoffrey saw father and daughter below, the latter returning his salute, as he waved his hand before passing out of their sight.“Old boy thought I was a hawk after his pigeon,” said Geoffrey, lightly. “What an ill-conditioned old ogre! But there must be some good under his rough bark. Prawle, eh? Elizabeth, otherwise Bess. And the old woman! What a piteous face! Twenty years an invalid! Ah, well! I don’t think Mr Prawle, of the hoarse voice and fierce tone, need be afraid; but I’d rather not offend him, say about the fair Elizabeth, and then meet him—angry—say beside the shaft of one of those old mines.”He glanced then at his watch, and hastened his steps, for the time of his engagement at An Morlock was drawing near.

“I really cannot come again!” exclaimed somebody, piteously, as Geoffrey stood there half-paralysed by surprise.

“What nonsense!” said a man’s voice. “You can if—”

Geoffrey heard no more, for he beat a rapid retreat back into the sunshine, and hurried away, with a comical expression of vexation upon his countenance.

“Lovers, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Hang ’em, they’re everywhere! Fancy finding them in this out-of-the-way, forsaken place of all others in the world. Why, hang me! if I don’t believe that’s why some women go up Mont Blanc—they go up to court.”

He strode away, whistling a merry air, little thinking what an influence all this would have upon his future life; and, thrusting his hands down into his pockets, he went on, leaping from rock to rock, making for the other side of the promontory, evidently intending to see as much of the country as he could before returning to dinner.

“Why, hallo!” he suddenly exclaimed, stopping short. “Surely I’ve heard one of those voices before? No: impossible!” he said, “I don’t know any ladies down here.”

Going on again, he soon crossed a sort of heathery down, dotted with masses of rock, which cropped up here and there; sent several couples of agile sheep bounding away, and noted that they were linked together at the neck; drew long, bracing breaths of the fresh, pure air; and, after skirting along the edge on the far side of the promontory, he went on inland, comparing the glorious sea to violet and gold, as it gleamed in the sunshine and reflected the brighter tints of the cliffs.

He soon hit upon a foot-track, which evidently led towards Carnac if he turned to the right, while on the left it led—

“Let’s see where!” said Geoffrey.

Half an hour’s walking showed that it led onward to a farther point on the sea, and he hesitated as to whether he should go on. A glance at his watch told him that he had ample time, and as there was another ruined engine-house evidently by the track, he walked on, finding that the path led direct to the side of another mining venture, but evidently of much older date, and he quite started as he found how near the path went by a yawning shaft.

It had probably once been protected by a wall of loosely piled-up stones, but these lay scattered here and there, while the great engine-house had half fallen, the chimney only being intact.

“How dangerous,” thought Geoffrey, as he gazed down into the shaft, and noted how the grass and heath had grown over the embankment ofdébriswhich ran down in a slope landward, joining a precipitous descent from the engine-house, which stood upon a ridge quite a hundred and fifty feet above the sea, which ran in diamond sparkling cascades over the rocks that fringed the shore nearly a quarter of a mile away.

“They seem to have always perched these places on a ridge,” he mused, as he looked into the ruined engine-house, and laughingly wondered whether there would be any lovers there.

“Quite a wonder!” he exclaimed, as he glanced round the ruin, and, finding nothing to excite his interest, he returned to the well-worn edge of the shaft.

He could not look straight down, for the top had crumbled in, making a sharp slope all round the edge; so, laughing at himself, he picked up one of the great lichen-covered pieces of granite that had formed the protecting wall, hurled it from him, and listened till with a roar came up the sound of a tremendous plash.

“That’s about a hundred and fifty feet down to the water,” he said aloud. “I believe it comes natural to a fellow to want to throw stones down every hole he sees. I’ll be bound to say that Cain and Abel used to do just the same. Adam never was a boy.”

He stood thinking for a few minutes, these old mine shafts attracting him greatly.

“I wonder whether any one was ever thrown down that shaft?” he said aloud. “She would never come out alive.”

He found himself wondering again why his thoughts had taken such a turn, and why he should have said “she.”

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I shall be writing a romance of a ruined mine directly,” and going on to the slope ofdébrishe began kicking out and examining the old fragments that had been dug from the bowels of the earth, taking out his pocket-lens, and minutely inspecting each piece for traces of metallic ore, but finding little to reward his pains.

“There was a lot of money wasted here, I’ll be bound,” he exclaimed, as he turned off and once more began to follow the track.

“It’s a grand coast-line,” he thought, as he walked on past and under the huge masses of grey granite, dotted with green fern and pink stonecrop, till he found the path begin to descend rapidly into a ravine, full of ferny nooks and spots made musical by the dripping water of the springs. The place had very precipitous sides, with a bright rushing stream foaming on towards the sea, where it spread its waters over the pure sands of a tiny cove.

There were a couple of boats drawn up below a large straggling granite cottage, built evidently a portion at a time upon a shelf of rock well out of the reach of the waves; and upon a platform in front of the unlovely place, hedged in with stones, was some attempt at a garden.

So steep was the track down as he approached the place, Geoffrey could easily have leaped from this slope on to the cottage roof, which was as rugged as the walls, and altogether the dwelling had a wild, uncouth aspect, in no wise improved by some old ship wood and lumber lying about.

But this was all redeemed by the beauty of the little cove, with the breaking waves which seemed to sweep up the waters of the little stream after its gurgling course, amidst lichenous stones from where it had sprung high up the ravine out of a bower of many-tinted greens.

“Just the spot for a smuggler or a wrecker, or a fellow to build a house to boat and fish, and live away from the world. I should like to lodge here,” he continued, as his eyes wandered over the scene. “Wish I could paint, and—ah! you would come in capitally. Hallo! she’s coming to me. No, my lass,” he said, as if speaking to her, though she was too distant to hear, “it’s labour in vain. I don’t want a guide to any caves or dripping wells, or to buy specimens of ore, spar, or the like. By Jove, though, she’s very handsome. Why, she must be a gypsy.”

This was said as a young woman came into sight from the cottage below, looked up, and on catching sight of the visitor seemed to speak to some one within, and then hurried up to meet him.

As Geoffrey remarked, she was very handsome, but it was a wild, rugged, half-savage kind of beauty. Dark-eyed, brown-skinned, with a ruddy flush which showed how little she sheltered from the weather, while her abundant black hair was carelessly twisted up, and hung down in a massive knot between her shoulders. Her dress was of the commonest cotton, and slovenly made, a short print gown being tied round her waist, over a bright-coloured serge petticoat, while in one hand she held a print hood. But, in spite of her ungraceful clothing, Geoffrey could see that she was lithe, strong, and active, and there was no little natural grace in the undulations of her unfettered form, as she hurried up to meet him.

“Come here and buy some sweets,” she said, in a voice as full of command as entreaty, and as she looked him boldly yet curiously in the face, he saw that her lips were red and full, over large but beautifully white teeth.

“Sweets? Nonsense, my lass. I don’t eat sweets. What cove is this?”

“Gwennas,” said the girl. “Come down and buy some sweets. Here’s the money.”

Geoffrey stared, as the girl held out a penny in her large, well-shaped hand.

“Poor lass! A love case for a sovereign. She’s crazy,” said Geoffrey to himself, and, changing his manner, he took the coin from the girl’s hand, receiving, at the same time, a smile for reward. “What’s your name, my lass?” he said aloud.

“Bessie—Elizabeth Prawle,” said the girl, shortly. “You’re a stranger.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at her sidewise. “Do they sell sweets here?”

“Yes,” said the girl, sharply.

“And you are very fond of them, eh?”

They were going side by side towards the cottage, when the girl faced round, looked at him in a puzzled way for a moment, and then laughed merrily.

“They are not for me,” she said, sharply, as they reached the rough rocky platform in front of the cottage. “Here, father, this gentleman is going to buy some sweets.”

“Is he? Oh!”

This was uttered in a low, hoarse growl, by a strongly-built, rugged fisher-looking man, in a blue Jersey, and very thick flannel trousers, braced up right over his chest. He wore no hat, but a shaggy crop of grizzled hair shaded his weather-beaten, inflamed face, as he sat on a block of granite, as rugged as himself, overhauling a long fishing-line, whose hooks he was sticking in pieces of blackened cork.

He looked up for a moment frowningly at the visitor, with a pair of dark piercing eyes, drew a great gnarled hand across his mouth to wipe away the tobacco-juice, lowered his eyes, got up, stooped, and displayed an enormous patch upon his trousers, reseated himself, and went on with his work.

“Come in,” said the girl, quickly, and she led the way into a large low room, roughly but well furnished, and scrupulously clean. It was a compound of rustic farmhouse kitchen with a flavour of parlour and ship’s chandlery or boating store. For along the massive beams, and wherever a great peg could be driven in, hung nets, lines, and other fishing gear. A ship’s lantern hung here; there was a binnacle there. Odds and ends of cabin furniture were mingled with well-polished Windsor chairs, and brass decorated chests of drawers. There was plenty of ornamentation too. Shells, a sword-fish, dried marine animals, sponges and seaweeds, masses of coral, fragments of bright spar, and some gay pieces of china, lay upon chimney-piece and shelves; in addition to which there was the model of a full-rigged ship in full sail, fitted up in a great glass case.

“Quite an old curiosity shop,” thought Geoffrey, as he saw all this at a glance, and noted that the well-cleaned floor was sprinkled with sand, save where a great home-made shred rug lay in front of the bright black fireplace, on whose hob a great copper kettle shone from its dark corner like a misted sun.

The light came through the open door, and formed quite a Rembrandtish picture in the low, darkened room, falling as it did in mote-sparkling rays, like a band of sunbeams, right across a bent figure in an old well-washed chintz-covered armchair.

The first thing that struck Geoffrey was the figure’s occupation. The day was warm, but she was seated very close to the fire, airing a garment carefully spread over her knees, and from which came a most unmistakable odour of scorching, reminding the visitor very strongly of his late visit to Mrs Mullion’s on the cliff. A pair of very thin white hands were busy adding mesh after mesh to a herring net, while as they entered, the bent down head was eagerly raised, and Geoffrey saw a face whose white hair and pallid, piteous look, told its own tale, as the weary-looking eyes scanned his face.

“Another customer, mother,” said the girl, quickly. “Oh, why don’t you be more careful? you’ll burn yourself to death.”

“It’s cold, Bessie; it’s cold, dear, but that’s well—that’s well,” said the invalid, whose hands began to tremble, so that she missed a stitch or two in her net. “Be quick, dear, be quick.”

“Yes, mother. Did you say a pen’orth, sir?”

“No, I want sixpen’orth, my lass,” said Geoffrey.

The girl darted a grateful look at him as she took a covered glass jar from the window-sill, and as she rattled the coloured sticks of candy which were its contents, Geoffrey heard a sigh of satisfaction from the invalid, a glance showing him that the head was once more bent down over the net.

“Fine weather, Mrs Prawle,” said Geoffrey, hazarding a shot, as the girl busily rustled a paper bag.

“Yes, yes,” said the invalid, looking up at him, “I suppose it is, sir. I hope you will come again.”

The girl darted a quick look at him.

“Oh, yes! of course,” replied Geoffrey, whose eyes wandered over the pitiable picture before him. “I shall come again.”

“I’m so anxious to get up a connection, sir,” continued the invalid, “and Gwennas Cove is rather out of the way.”

“I should think it is—rather!” said Geoffrey to himself, and he could hardly refrain from smiling at the poor woman’s idea of getting up a connection in that wild spot.

“Yes, Bess, take the money. Thank you kindly, sir. Good-day, sir; good-day;” and the invalid began to carefully turn the airing garment upon her knees, though there was no more dampness in it than in one of the red-hot pieces of wood over which she hung.

Geoffrey felt disposed to stay, but his time was short, and, after a cheery “good-day,” he strode out, followed by the girl, to find that the rugged-looking old man was gone, patch and all; but the girl hurried on before him for a few yards, as if to be out of hearing at the cottage, and then held out her hand.

“What? Good-by!” said Geoffrey, smiling, and he held out his own.

“No, no, nonsense,” said the girl, flushing. “Give me the sweeties, and take your money back.”

“Then you carry that on to please the old lady, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, of course,” replied the girl, sharply. “Didn’t you know?”

“Not I; but I guessed as much.”

“Mother’s been ill these twenty years, and has to be carried to her bed. She thinks she’s a burthen, so we do it to humour her.”

“I thought as much.”

“Then why don’t you take your money?” said a hoarse, rough voice, that chased away all the sentiment of the affair, and Geoffrey started round to see that the fierce-looking old man was leaning over a block of granite, his arms crossed, and his chin resting upon them. “Take your money and go.”

“No,” said Geoffrey, in his off-hand way. “No: thanks. I want the sweets for the children.”

“Yours?” said the old fellow, roughly.

“Mine? Hang it, man; no.”

Geoffrey turned to the girl, and looked at her, laughing merrily; but this seemed to irritate the old man, who came fiercely from behind the granite block, thrusting his hands far down into his pockets, and scowling angrily.

“Look here, young man,” he said, hoarsely, “you’re a stranger here, and don’t know us.”

“Not yet,” said Geoffrey, “but I dare say I soon shall.”

“Take your money, and don’t come again,” said the old man, hoarsely.

“You are a nice, pleasant-spoken old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, nonchalantly, as he coolly opened the paper bag, and took out one of the sticks of candy. “Have a sweet?”

The man uttered a fierce growl that sounded like an oath, and took a step forward in a menacing way, but the girl sprang forward, and threw her arm across his chest.

“D’yer want me to hurl you off the rocks?” he said savagely.

“Be quiet, father,” cried the girl. “The gentleman means no harm.”

“Go in, Bess,” he shouted, and, shaking her off, he went close up to Geoffrey, who did not give way an inch, but looked full in the fierce, repulsive face thrust close to his, till the old man lowered his eyes, and stepped on one side, muttering angrily.

“Do you always treat strangers like this, Master Prawle?” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“Go away, I tell ye,” said the old man, fiercely. “We want no dealings with the people.”

“Don’t anger father, sir,” said the girl, who, however, seemed to be in no wise put out by the old man’s savage resentment.

“Not I, my girl,” replied Geoffrey; “but what is the matter with your mother?”

“She fell off the cliff one night,” said the girl, quickly.

“Tell him to go, Bess,” growled her father. “We don’t want him here.”

“I asked the gentleman to come, father,” said the girl. Then, turning to Geoffrey, “Thank you kindly, sir. It pleases mother.”

“Don’t name it, my lass,” replied Geoffrey, smiling, and the girl looked at him very fixedly, as she watched every turn in his frank, open face. “Good-day,” he continued. “Good-day, Master Prawle.”

The old man scowled at him by way of reply, and then stood watching him till he had climbed back to the edge of the ravine, where, turning to glance down, Geoffrey saw father and daughter below, the latter returning his salute, as he waved his hand before passing out of their sight.

“Old boy thought I was a hawk after his pigeon,” said Geoffrey, lightly. “What an ill-conditioned old ogre! But there must be some good under his rough bark. Prawle, eh? Elizabeth, otherwise Bess. And the old woman! What a piteous face! Twenty years an invalid! Ah, well! I don’t think Mr Prawle, of the hoarse voice and fierce tone, need be afraid; but I’d rather not offend him, say about the fair Elizabeth, and then meet him—angry—say beside the shaft of one of those old mines.”

He glanced then at his watch, and hastened his steps, for the time of his engagement at An Morlock was drawing near.

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