George Manville Fenn

"The Vicar's People"

Chapter One.

Penwynn, Banker.

“H’m! ah! yes! of course! ‘Clever young engineer—thoroughly scientific—may be worth your while.’ Geoffrey Trethick! Cornishman by descent, of course.”

“It sounds like a Cornishman, papa.”

“Yes, my dear, Rundell and Sharp say they have sent me a paragon. Only another adventurer.”

“Poor fellow?” said Rhoda Penwynn, in a low whisper.

“What’s that?” said the first speaker, looking up sharply from his letters to where his daughter sat at the head of his handsomely-furnished breakfast-table.

“I only said, ‘Poor fellow!’ papa,” and the girl flushed slightly as she met the quick, stern look directed at her.

“And why, pray?”

“Because it seems so sad for a young man to come down here from London, full of hopefulness and ambition, eager to succeed, and then to find his hopes wrecked in these wretched mining speculations—just as our unhappy fishing-boats, and the great ships, are dashed to pieces on our rocky shored.”

Mr Lionel Penwynn, banker of Carnac, took the gold-rimmed double eye-glass off the bridge of his handsome aquiline nose, leaned back in his chair, drew himself up, and stared at his daughter.

She was worth it, for it would have been hard to find a brighter or more animated face in West Cornwall. Her father’s handsome features, high forehead, dark eyes, and well-cut mouth and chin were all there, but softened, so that where there was eagerness and vigour in the one, the other was all delicacy and grace, and as Rhoda gazed at the gathering cloud in her father’s face the colour in her cheeks deepened.

“Wretched mining speculations—unhappy boats! They find you this handsomely-furnished house, carriages and servants, and horses,” said Mr Penwynn, sharply.

“Oh, yes, papa,” said the girl; “but sometimes when I know the troubles of the people here I feel as if I would rather—”

“Live in a cottage, and be poor, and play the fool,” exclaimed Mr Penwynn, angrily. “Yes, of course. Very sweet, and sentimental, and nice, to talk about, but it won’t do in practice. There, don’t look like that,” he continued, forcing a smile to hide his annoyance. “Give me another cup of coffee, my dear.”

Rhoda took and filled his cup, and then carried it to him herself, passing her hand over his forehead, and bending down to kiss it afterwards, when he caught her in his arms, and kissed her very affectionately.

“That’s better,” he said, as his child resumed her seat, “but you make me angry when you are so foolish, my dear. You don’t know the value of money and position. Position is a great thing, Rhoda, though you don’t appreciate it. You don’t understand what it is for a man to have been twice mayor of the borough, even if it is small.”

“Oh, yes, I do, papa; and it is very nice to be able to help others,” said Rhoda, sadly.

“Yes, yes, of course, my dear; but you give away too much. I would rather see you fonder of dress and jewellery. People should help themselves.”

“But some are so unfortunate, papa, and—”

“They blame me for it, of course. Now, once for all, Rhoda, you must not listen to this idle chatter. They come to me and borrow money on their boats, or nets, or fish, or their expectations. I tell them, and Mr Tregenna, who draws up the agreements, fully explains to them, the terms upon which they have the money, which they need not take unless they like, and then when they fail to pay, the boat or fish, or whatever it may be, has to be sold. I never took advantage of any of them in my life. On the contrary,” he continued, assuming an ill-used, martyred air, “I have been a great benefactor to the place, and the good opinion of the people is really important to a man in my position.”

Rhoda looked across at him with rather a piteous face as he went on.

“They would often be unable to make a start if it were not for me; and I always charge them a very moderate rate of interest. You must not do it; Rhoda; you must not indeed. I thought you a girl of too strong sense to listen to all this wretched calumny. You mix too much with the people, and are too ready to believe ill of me.”

“Oh, no, no, papa!” cried the girl, with tears in her eyes, and she rose once more to go to his side, but he motioned her away.

“There, there: that will do, my dear,” he said, forcing a laugh. “You spoil my breakfast. Give me one of those fried soles. There, of course, half cold with our talking. Dear me, dear me, what a lot of grit and sand we foolish people do throw into our daily life.”

He smiled across the table, and poor Rhoda smiled back; then her eyes dropped, and she saw her face so grotesquely reproduced in the highly-polished silver coffee-pot that she felt ready to burst into a hysterical fit of laughing; which she checked, however, as her father chatted on, and read scraps from his other letters, talking pleasantly and well, as his handsome face brightened, and the sun that shone in upon the silver and china upon the fine white damask gave a sparkle to his short, crisp grey hair, though, at the same time, it made plain the powder upon his cleanly-shaven face.

He had so many pleasant things to say on that sunny, spring morning that the breakfast-table was soon as bright as the dappled opalescent sea that sparkled and flashed as it played round the rocky promontory upon which stood the ruins of Wheal Carnac Mine, or lifted the dark hulls of the fishing-luggers moored to the buoys, some of which had their dark cinnamon-hued sails hung out to dry, forming, through the heavily-curtained window, with its boxes of ferns, a charming bit of sea, like some carefully-selected specimen of the painter’s art.

Rhoda had forgotten the little cloud in the present sunshine, when, after a preparation of pleasant words, Mr Penwynn suddenly said,—

“Oh! by the way, I did not tell you about Tregenna.”

“About Tregenna, papa?” said Rhoda, whose face suddenly lowered.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr Penwynn, putting on his glasses and taking up the paper, as he shifted his chair sidewise to the table, “he’s coming here this morning. By the way, Rhoda, you are twenty-one, are you not?”

“Yes, papa, of course, but—”

“I told Tregenna you were,” he said, quietly, and with an averted face. “He’s thirty-three.”

“I don’t understand you, papa,” said Rhoda, quietly.

“Has Tregenna been attentive to you lately?”

“Oh, yes, papa,” said Rhoda, impatiently; “but what do you mean?”

“Of course he would be,” said Mr Penwynn, as if to himself. “What’s this alarming earthquake in Peru? Ah! they’re always having earthquakes in Peru; but it’s a fine mining country.”

“Papa, you are not paying any attention to what I say,” cried Rhoda. “What do you mean about Mr Tregenna?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear,” said Mr Penwynn, re-adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses upon his nose. “Some nonsense of his. He declares that he is terribly smitten with you.”

“Papa!”

“And that he can never be happy without you.”

“Papa!”

“And I told him he had better come and talk to you himself.”

“You told him that, papa?” said Rhoda, pushing back her chair.

“To be sure, my dear,” said Mr Penwynn, rustling the newspaper in the most unruffled way. “Of course it is all nonsense.”

“Nonsense, papa? You know Mr Tregenna is not a man who talks nonsense.”

“Well, perhaps not, my dear. He certainly is a very clever, sensible fellow.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Rhoda, beneath her breath, as she gazed at the handsome profile before her.

“You might do worse, my dear,” continued Mr Penwynn, skimming the paper.

“Do I understand you, papa, that you sanction Mr Tregenna’s proposal?”

“Sanction?” he said, looking up from the paper for a moment to glance over his glasses at his child. “Oh, yes, my dear: of course.”

“I can not—I will not, see Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly, and one of her little feet began to beat the thick Turkey carpet.

“Don’t be foolish, my dear. He is desperately taken with you, and will make you a capital husband.”

“Husband?” cried the girl, passionately. “Oh, papa, you cannot mean this. Mr Tregenna is—”

“A gentleman, my dear, a great friend of mine—of ours, I should say—of great assistance to me in my business arrangements, and I think the match most suitable—that is, if he is in earnest.”

“In earnest? Oh, papa?” cried Rhoda, piteously, “have you thought—have you considered Mr Tregenna’s character?”

“Character?” said Mr Penwynn, turning his head in astonishment.

“Yes, papa. People—Miss Pavey, Mr Paul, Dr Rumsey—all say—”

“Bah! rubbish! stuff! you silly goose! All sorts of things, of course, as they do about every handsome, well-to-do young bachelor. They are a set of whist-playing, gossiping, mischief-making old women, the lot of them, and if Rumsey don’t mind what he’s about he’ll lose what little practice he has. He don’t come here again.”

“No, papa, you will not visit my hasty words on poor Dr Rumsey,” said Rhoda, with spirit.

“And as for old Paul,” continued Mr Penwynn, from behind the paper, “he’s a bilious, chronic, ill-tempered, liverless old capsicum, who would rob his own mother of her good name—if she had one.”

“I believe he is a true gentleman at heart,” said Rhoda, quickly.

“Then I’d rather not be a gentleman,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing, “or a lady either like Miss Pavey. Poor little red-nosed thing. Pity she wasn’t married twenty years ago. I see: I see: that’s it,” he said, laughing heartily, and taking off and wiping his glasses. “Poor little Martha Pavey, of course! She fell desperately in love with Tregenna, and—and—ha! ha! ha! ha!—he—he did not return the passion. Heavens! what a wicked wretch.”

Rhoda had risen, and stood with her hand upon the back of her chair, looking very much agitated, but cold and stern, as she watched her father, and waited till his assumed gaiety was at an end.

“Papa,” she said, at length, in a tone that taught him that he was on the wrong tack, and that he must speak to his daughter upon this important point as if she were a woman, and not as a silly, weak girl, “I do not base my objections to Mr Tregenna upon what people say alone.”

“Then on what, pray?” he exclaimed, with his glass now falling inside his open vest. “What has he done? Did he once upon a time kiss some pretty fisher-girl, with bare legs? or a nice-looking miner’s daughter? If so, it was very bad taste, but very natural.”

“Mr Tregenna is a gentleman I could never like,” retorted Rhoda, without condescending to answer this banter, “and I believe he is already engaged to Margaret Mullion.”

“Engaged? Madge Mullion? Now, my dear Rhoda, what nonsense. Is it likely that if Tregenna were engaged to Madge he would talk as he has several times talked to me? How can you be so absurd?”

“But he must be, papa,” said Rhoda, quickly.

“Nonsense! Absurd!”

“I have myself met them on the cliffs and up An Lowan.”

“Well, and if you did, it was only a bit of silly flirtation with a very handsome girl. Tregenna could not care for her. Besides, she is a notorious flirt.”

“I have nothing to say to that, papa,” replied Rhoda, quietly.

“But I have,” he said, now angrily, “and I really am surprised at you—a girl of so much sense—bringing up some silly flirtation against a man who proposes for your hand. What do you want to marry—an archangel?”

“No, papa,” said Rhoda, coldly.

“Now look here, Rhoda,” exclaimed Mr Penwynn, growing angry at the opposition he was encountering, “you have some reason for this.”

“I have given you my reasons, papa. I do not, and never like Mr Tregenna.”

“Then,” he cried, passionately striking the table with his fist, “there is some one in the way. Who is it?”

“Who is it, papa?”

“Yes; I insist upon knowing who it is. And look here, if you have been entering into an engagement with some beggarly up start, who—”

“Papa,” said Rhoda, looking him full in the face, “why do you speak to me like that? You would not if you were not in a passion. You know perfectly well that I keep nothing from you.”

This was a heavy blow for Mr Penwynn, and it made him wince. It cooled him, and he shook his head, muttered, and ended by exclaiming,—

“Sit down, Rhoda. What is the use of your being so obstinate and putting me out? You make me say these things. Come, be reasonable. See Mr Tregenna, and let him speak to you.”

“I would far rather not, papa,” said Rhoda, firmly.

“But you must. I insist; I beg of you. It is not courteous to him. Come; see him, and hear what he has to say. There, there, I knew you would. Look here, Rhoda, tell me this. I ask it of you as your father. Had your sweet mother been alive, it would have come from her; I would not intrude upon the secrets of your heart. Have you cared, do you care, for any one else?”

Rhoda smiled sadly.

“I have no secrets in my heart, papa,” she said, quietly, “and I feel urged to say that I will not answer your question; but I will answer it,” she continued with her dark, clear eyes fixed on his. “No, papa, I never have cared for any one else, neither do I. I might almost say that I never thought of such a thing as marriage.”

Mr Penwynn uttered a sigh of relief.

“And you will see Tregenna when he calls. I beg, I implore you to, Rhoda.”

“I will see him then, papa; but—”

“No, no. Let me have no hasty declarations, my dear,” he said, rising, and taking her hand. “Marriages are a mystery. See Mr Tregenna, and take time. Hear what he has to say; give him time too, as well—months, years if you like—and, meanwhile, shut your ears against all paltry scandal.”

“I will, papa.”

“And, my darling, if it should come off, you will have won a good husband for yourself, and a valuable friend and counsellor for me.”

“But—”

“No more new, my dear; no more now. We have said enough. Take time, and get cool. Then we shall see.”

Evidently with the idea of himself getting cool he began to walk slowly and thoughtfully up and down the room, his hands behind him, his feet carefully placed one before the other, heel to toe, as if he were measuring off the carpet,—rather a ridiculous proceeding to a stranger, but his daughter was accustomed to the eccentricity, and now saw nothing absurd in his struggles to retain his balance.

“Yes,” he said suddenly, after pacing up and down the carpet a few times, “take time, and get cool.”

As he spoke he left the room, and Rhoda Penwynn seated herself in the window, with her eyes apparently fixed upon the dancing boats at sea, though they saw nothing but the dark, handsome face of John Tregenna, with the slight puckering beneath his eyes, and the thin, close red line of his lips, as he appeared to her last when he took her hand to raise it respectfully to the said thin lips; and, as she, seemed to meet his eyes, she shuddered, and wished that she could change places with the poorest girl upon the cliff.

“Miss Pavey, ma’am,” said a footman, and she started, for she had not heard him enter; “in the drawing-room, ma’am.”

Rhoda rose hastily, and tried to smooth away the lines of care, as she hurried into the room to meet her visitor.

Chapter Two.

The Adventurer.

“How much farther is it, coachman?”

“Carnac, sir? Just four miles. There it lies! Yonder white houses, by the cove, with the high rocks o’ both sides.”

“Four miles? Why, it does not seem two.”

“It’s all four, sir,” said the driver, giving his long whip a whish through the air, making the leaders of the four-horse coach shake their heads and increase their speed, as he deftly caught the end of the lash, and twisted the thong around the whip-shaft by a turn of his wrist.

“Ah!” said the first speaker, a young man of about thirty, “the air is so fine and clear. I presume that you are going on to Felsport?”

“No, no,” said the gentleman addressed, in a hesitating tone of voice; “I am going to stop at Carnac.”

His long black coat, broad-brimmed round-topped hat and tassel, suggested that he was a clergyman of advanced—or retrogressive—views, and he paused wearily, as if annoyed at being interrupted, as he spoke—

“How strange! Do you know the place?”

“N-no; I have never seen it.”

The clergyman lowered his eyes, and began once more reading a little book, with very small type, while the first speaker raised his eyes in wonder that a stranger could read while passing through the wild beauties of the grand Cornish region spread around. He then leaned forward once more to speak to the coachman, who was ready enough to answer questions about that mine, in full work, where a tall granite building, like a clumsily-formed church tower, stood up on the bleakest point of wind-swept barren hill, with what seemed like a long arm thrust out on one side, the said arm being apparently engaged in telegraphing to them mysterious signs as it slowly rose up and stopped, then went half-way down and stopped before descending to the earth, and finally rose, but all in the most peculiar and deliberate manner.

“That’s Wheal Porley, sir. Bringing a good bit of copper to grass there just now.”

“And what mine’s that on the next hill?”

“Oh! that’s tin, sir. Old Friendship they call it; but there’s little doing now. Tin’s very low. I hear they bring over such a lot from Peru, and ’Stralia, and Banky, and them other gashly outlandish places.”

“Peru, eh? I did not know that was a tin country.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t Peru, sir. I arn’t sure. That’s a rare old place yonder,” the driver continued, pointing with his whip to a large granite engine-house, with towering chimney, standing on a point running out into the sea.

“But it isn’t working. It seems to be in ruins.”

“Ruins, sir? Ah! and it’s put lots o’ people in ruins too. There’s a heap o’ money gone down that mine.”

“Yes, there are failures, I suppose; but is it a tin-mine?”

“Yes, sir,—tin. That’s what it is, or what it was meant to be by the adventurers; but they never got any thing out that would pay. They’re a bad lot, those adventurers.”

“Are they?” said the young man dryly, and he smiled as he let his eyes wander over the country, with its deeply-scored ravines, into which the whole of the fertile soil of the high ground seemed to have been washed, for they were as rich in ferns and lush foliage as the granite heights were bare.

To his left swept away the soft blue sea, dotted with the warm brown sails of the fishing-luggers, and with here and there the white canvas of a yacht or passing ship.

The young man drew back, and seemed to inflate his chest with the fresh, pure air. His dark eyes brightened, and a pleasant smile began to play about his lips, but it was half hidden by his crisp, short beard. As they went on he glanced sharply from place to place, eager to take in the surroundings of a land that was to be his future home; and the result seemed to be satisfactory, for he took off his hat, let the sea-breeze blow through his short curly hair, and once more turned to his reading companion.

They formed a striking contrast, the one sitting hatless, dark, eager, and apparently full of repressed vitality, his muscles standing out from arm and leg, and his whole aspect bespeaking the informal and natural; while the other was a pale, delicate, handsomely-featured, fair man, apparently of the same age, with his face smoothly shaven, his hair very closely cut, the hand that held the book tightly gloved in black, the other that turned down a leaf that seemed disposed to dally with the wind, delicate, long-fingered, white, and with nails most carefully trimmed. Formality, culture, and refinement were visible at every turn, and as he became aware that his travelling-companion was watching him, he looked up with a half-haughty, half-annoyed air, and met the sharp, keen glance.

“Book interesting?” said the other, in a quick, imperative way.

“I always find my studies interesting,” said the young clergyman coldly, and speaking as if compelled to answer in spite of himself. He then lowered his eyes, and was about to continue his reading.

“What is it?” said the other. “Ah! I see, ‘Early Fathers,’ and the rest of it. My word! what a lot of time I did waste over that sort of thing!”

“Waste?” said the clergyman, indignantly.

“Yes: I call it waste. You don’t.”

“I never knew that study could be considered a waste of time, sir.”

“No, of course not, when it is to do yourself or somebody else good.”

A hot, indignant retort was on the young cleric’s lips, but he checked it, and was taking refuge in reserve, when the other went on,—

“Don’t think me rude: it’s my way. I saw you were an Oxford man; that’s why I spoke. Is old Rexton still at Maudlin?”

“The Dean, if you mean him, is still at Magdalen College, sir,” said the clergyman, frigidly.

“Rum old fellow. How he used to sit upon me. Not a Maudlin man, I suppose?”

“I had the honour of being at that college, sir, when at Oxford.”

“Indeed! then it couldn’t have been very far from the time when I was there.”

“You—were you an Oxford man?” said the clergyman, staring blankly at his companion, who smiled at his astonishment.

“To be sure I was. You’ll find my name there—Geoffrey Trethick.”

“I—I have heard the name.”

“And I am addressing—”

For answer, after a little hesitation, the clergyman drew out a small pocket-book, with red edges to the diary, and carefully extracted a card, on which the other read aloud,—

“‘Reverend Edward Lee, Carnac.’ Humph! that’s odd,” he said. “I’m going to live at Carnac. Do you know a Mr Penwynn there?”

“Penwynn, the banker, sir?” said the coachman, turning his head sharply, and pointing to a grey house just above the town, sheltered amongst some trees at the head of the little bay. “That’s his house, sir—An Morlock.”

“Thanks, coachman. Did you say you knew him, Mr Lee?”

“Not at present,” said the clergyman, still keeping up his reserve, but all the time feeling, in spite of himself, drawn towards his travelling-companion. “I am a stranger here.”

“I hope we shall be strangers no longer. Beautiful country, is it not?”

“Ye-es. Very picturesque,” said the clergyman, gazing vacantly around, the other watching him in an amused way, as, after letting his eyes rest for a few moments on the beautiful expanse of rocky hill, shady ravine, and glistening sea, he once more raised his book and went on reading.

“Books always, and not men’s minds,” muttered Geoffrey Trethick. Then, bending forwards, he once more engaged the coachman in conversation, to the clergyman’s great relief; and, putting a set of leading questions, he drew from the driver all the information he could about the neighbourhood and its people, the man finishing with,—

“Ah, sir, it’s as fine and good a country as any in England, if it wasn’t for the adventurers, and they about ruin it.”

“Indeed!” said the young man, with the air of being once more very much amused; and then the coach drew up at the door of the principal inn. There was a little bustle, and the occupants of the various seats climbed down, luggage was handed out of the boots, and the two travellers stood together on the rough paving-stones.

“Take my portmanteau in, boots,” said Trethick, sharply. “Do you breakfast here at the hotel, Mr Lee?”

“Sir,” said the clergyman, distantly, “I have not yet made my plans.”

“Oh! all right; no offence. I was going to say, let us breakfast together for company. I’m off to present my letters of introduction. Good-day; I dare say we shall meet again.”

“I hope not,” thought the Reverend Edward Lee, upon whom his travelling-companion seemed to act like a strong blast, bending him bodily and mentally as well, and he turned into the hotel, hearing, as he did so, the voice of one of the hangers-on exclaiming, in a sing-song tone,—

“Mr Penwynn’s, An Morlock, sir? Right up street, and out by the hill I’ll show you the way.”

“Thanks; no, my lad, I shall find it. Catch!” There was the ring of a small piece of silver falling upon the pavement, and the young clergyman sighed with relief to think his travelling-companion had gone.

Chapter Three.

The Carnac Gazette.

Rhoda Penwynn’s visitor was in the drawing-room at An Morlock, making the most use possible of her eyes while she was alone. She had seen who had called and left cards, and what book Rhoda was reading. She had also mentally taken the pattern of the new design of embroidery, and meant to work a piece exactly the same; and now she was filling up the time before Rhoda entered by gazing at herself in one of the large mirrors.

It was not a bad reflection—to wit, that of a refined, fair face, that must have been very pretty fifteen or twenty years before; but now there was an eager sharpness in the features, as if caused by expectancy never gratified; the fair white skin had a slight ivory—old ivory—tinge, and the pretty bloom that once hid beneath the down of her cheeks had coalesced and slightly tinted the lady’s nose. It was but slight, but it was unmistakable.

Miss Pavey was well and fairly, even fashionably, dressed, and generally she wore the aspect of what she was—a maiden lady who loved colour, and had, after sundry matrimonial disappointments, retired to a far-off west-country, sea-side place, where her moderate independency would be of so much more value than in a large town.

She sighed as she contemplated herself in the glass, and then held her handkerchief to her face and bent her eyes upon a book as she heard the rustle of a dress, and the door opened, when she rose to meet Rhoda with effusion, and an eager kiss.

“My dearest Rhoda, how well you do look!” she exclaimed. “What a becoming dress!”

“Do you think so, Miss Pavey,” said Rhoda, quietly. “Miss Pavey again! Why will you keep up this terrible distance? My dear Rhoda, is it never to be Martha?”

“Well then, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling. “I did not expect to see you so early.”

“It is early for visitors, my dear; but I thought you would like to know the news. We have so little here in Carnac.”

“Really, I trouble very little about the news, Miss Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling. “But what is the matter?” she added, as her visitor once more held her handkerchief to her face.

“That dreadful toothache again,” sighed Miss Pavey. “I really am a martyr to these nervous pains.”

“Why not boldly go to Mr Rumsey and have it out?”

“Oh, no! oh, dear no!” cried Miss Pavey, with a look of horror, “I could not bear for a man to touch my mouth like that. Don’t mind me, dear, it will be better soon;” and it seemed to be, for it was a pleasant little fiction kept up by Miss Pavey—that toothache, to add truthfulness to the complete set she wore, and whose extraction she carefully attended to herself.

“Of course you don’t care for news, my dear,” continued the lady; “I used not when I was your age. But when one comes to be thirty-two one’s ideas change so. One becomes more human, and takes more interest in humanity at large than in one’s self. You are such a happy contented girl, too; nothing seems to trouble you.”

“But your news,” said Rhoda, to change the conversation, as Miss Pavey smoothed down her blue silk dress.

“To be sure, yes, my dear. I saw the coach come over from the station—what a shame it is that we don’t have a branch railway!—and what do you think?”

“Think?” said Rhoda, looking amused, “I really don’t know what to think.”

“Pylades and Orestes!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“They’ve come, my dear,—they’ve come?”

“Pylades and Orestes?”

“Well, of course, that’s only my nonsense; but, as I told you, I saw the coach come in, and two gentlemen got down, both young and handsome—one fair, the other dark; and one is evidently our new vicar, and the other must be his friend. I am so glad, my dear, for I have been exceedingly anxious about the kind of person we were to have for our new clergyman.”

“Indeed!” said Rhoda, looking amused. “Why, I thought you went now to the Wesleyan chapel?”

“What a dear satirical girl you are, Rhoda. You know I only went there on account of Mr Chynoweth, and because Mr Owen stared at me so dreadfully, and was so persistent in preaching about dress.”

“But surely that was only at the mining and fishing women, who have been growing dreadfully gay in their attire.”

“Oh dear, no, my dear! oh dear no!” said Miss Pavey, shaking her head. “I have the best of reasons for believing it was all directed at me. You remember his text the last Sunday I was at church?”

“I am sorry to say I do not.”

“Dear me, I wonder at that. It was so very pointed. It was—‘Who is this that cometh with dyed garments from Bozrah?’ and he looked at me as he spoke. I think it was disgraceful.”

“But, my dear Martha, I think you are too sensitive.”

“Perhaps I am, my dear; perhaps I am. I have had my troubles; but that Mr Owen was dreadful. You know, my dear, he had—perhaps I ought not to say it, but I will—he evidently wanted to make an impression upon me, but I never could like him. He was so coarse, and abrupt, and short-sighted. He used to smoke pipes too. Mrs Mullion has told me, over and over again, that he would sit for hours of a night smoking pipes, and drinking gin and water, with that dreadfully wicked old man, Mr Paul. Really, my dear, I think some one ought to warn our new clergyman not to go and lodge at Mrs Mullion’s. You see there is hardly any choice for a gentleman, and for one who looks so refined to go and stay at Mrs Mullion’s would be dreadful.”

“Mrs Mullion is very good and amiable,” said Rhoda.

“Yes, my dear, she is; but Mr Paul is not a nice person; and then there is that Madge—dreadful girl!”

Rhoda’s heart gave a higher-pressure throb at this last name, and Miss Pavey ran on, as she could if she only obtained a good listener,—

“I do think that girl ought to be sent away from Carnac; I do, indeed. Really, my dear, if I had felt disposed to accept any advances on the part of Mr Tregenna, his conduct with that flighty creature would have set me against him.”

Rhoda’s heart beat faster still, and the colour went and came in her face as she listened. She blamed herself for hearkening to such petty gossip, but her visitor was determined to go on, and added confidence to confidence, for, as it may be gathered, Miss Martha Pavey’s peculiar idiosyncrasy was a belief that was terribly persecuted by the male sex, who eagerly sought her hand in marriage, though at the present time a gossip of Carnac had told another gossip that Miss Pavey was “setting her gashly old cap now at Methody Parson.”

“Don’t you think, my dear,” continued the visitor, “that your papa ought to interfere?”

“Interfere? About what?” exclaimed Rhoda, whose thoughts had run off to her conversation with her father that morning.

“Why, what are you thinking about, Rhoda?” cried Miss Pavey. “Oh, you naughty, naughty girl, you! You were thinking about our handsome young clergyman and his young friend. Oh, for shame, for shame?”

“Indeed, I was not!” exclaimed Rhoda, half amused, half indignant at her visitor’s folly.

“Oh, don’t tell me, dear,” said Miss Pavey, shaking her head. “It’s very shocking of you, but I don’t wonder. See how few marriageable gentlemen there are about here.”

“Miss Pavey, pray don’t be so absurd,” exclaimed Rhoda.

“Oh, no, my dear, I will not,” said the visitor, blushing, and then indulging in a peculiar giggle; “but after all, there is a something in wedlock, my dear Rhoda.”

“A something in wedlock?”

“Yes, dear, there is, you know, speaking to one another as confidantes—there is a something in wedlock after all, as you must own.”

“I never think of such a thing,” said Rhoda, laughing, for Miss Pavey’s evident leanings towards the subject under discussion were very droll.

“Of course not, my dear,” said Miss Pavey, seriously. “We none of us ever do; but still there are times when the matter is forced upon us, as in this case; and who knows, my dear, what may happen? You did not see them, I suppose?”

“See? whom?”

“My dear child, how dense you are this morning! The two new-comers, of course. And don’t you think that something ought to be done to warn them about where they are to take apartments?”

“Certainly not,” said Rhoda. “It would be the height of impertinence.”

“Oh, really, I cannot agree with you there, my dear Rhoda. I think it would be grievous to let this young clergyman go to Mullion’s, and really there is not another place in Carnac where a gentleman could lodge. In fact, I would sooner make the offer that he should board at my little home.”

“Board—take apartments at Dinas Vale?”

“Certainly, my dear. He is a clergyman, and we ought to extend some kind of hospitality to him. I regret that my limited income does not permit me to say to him, ‘Take up your home here for the present as a guest.’ Of course I would not open my doors to any one but a clergyman.”

“Of course not,” said Rhoda, absently; and soon after Miss Pavey took her leave, Rhoda going with her to the door, and on re-crossing the hall noticing a card lying upon the serpentine marble table, against whose dark, ruddy surface it stood out clear and white.

At another time it would not have attracted her attention, but now, as if moved by some impulse beyond her control, she went up close and read upon it the name,—

“Geoffrey Trethick.”

Nothing more—no “Mr” and no address.

Chapter Four.

The Wrong Place for the Right Man.

“Well, Chynoweth,” said Mr Penwynn, entering his office which was used as a branch of the Felsport bank, “any thing fresh?”

Mr Chynoweth, the banker’s manager, generally known as “The Jack of Clubs,” was a little man, dark, and spare, and dry. He was probably fifty, but well preserved, having apparently been bound by nature in vellum, which gave him quite, a legal look, while it made him thick-skinned enough to bear a good many unpleasantries in his daily life. He was rather bald, but very shiny on the crown. His face was cleanly shaved, and he had a habit of bending down his head, and gazing through his shaggy eyebrows at whosoever spoke, and also when he took up his parable himself.

Mr Chynoweth had been busy inside his desk when he heard his principal’s step, and there was plenty of room beneath the broad mahogany flap for him to do what he pleased unseen.

What Mr Chynoweth pleased that morning was to play over again a hand of whist, as near as he could remember—one that had been played at Dr Rumsey’s house the night before, when one of the guests, Mr Paul, had, to use his own words, “picked the game out of the fire,” Mr Chynoweth being, in consequence, five shillings out of pocket.

He kept a pack of cards and a whist guide in this desk, and it was frequently his habit to shuffle, cut, and deal four hands, spread them below the flap, and play them out by himself for practice, the consequence being that he was an adversary to be feared, a partner to be desired, at the snug little parties held at two or three houses in Carnac.

On this particular morning he had just arrived at the point where he felt that he had gone astray, when Mr Penwynn’s step was heard, the mahogany flap was closed, and “The Jack of Clubs” was ready for business.

“Fresh? Well, no. Permewan’s time’s up, and he wants more. Will you give it?”

“No: he has made no effort to pay his interest. Tell Tregenna to foreclose and sell.”

Mr Chynoweth rapidly made an entry upon an ordinary school slate on one side, and then crossed off an entry upon the other, refreshing his memory from it at the same time.

“Dr Rumsey wants an advance of a hundred pounds,” he said next, gazing through his shaggy eyebrows.

“Hang Dr Rumsey! He’s always wanting an advance. What does he say?”

“Pilchard fishery such a failure. Tin so low that he can’t get in his accounts.”

“Humph! What security does he offer?”

“Note of hand.”

“Stuff! What’s the use of his note of hand? Has he nothing else?”

“No,” said Mr Chynoweth. “He says you hold every thing he has.”

“Humph! Yes, suppose I do.”

“Without you’d consider half-a-dozen children good security?”

“Chynoweth, I hate joking over business-matters.”

“Not joking,” said Mr Chynoweth, stolidly. “That’s what he said.”

“Rubbish! Can’t he get some one else to lend his name?”

“Said he had asked every one he could, and it was no use.”

“Confound the fellow! Tut-tut-tut! What’s to be done, Chynoweth?”

“Lend him the money.”

“No, no. There, I’ll let him have fifty.”

“Not half enough. Better let him have it. You’ll be ill, or I shall, one of these days, and if you don’t let him have the money, he might give it us rather strongly.”

“Absurd. He dare not.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Chynoweth. “When one’s on one’s back one is in the doctor’s hands, you know.”

“There: let him have the money, but it must be at higher interest. But stop a moment,” continued Mr Penwynn, as his managing man’s pencil gave its first grate on the slate. “You’re a great friend of Rumsey: why not lend him your name to the note?”

Mr Chynoweth had no buttons to his trousers pockets, but he went through the process of buttoning them, and looked straight now at his employer.

“How long would you keep me here if you found me weak enough to do such a thing as that, Mr Penwynn? No, no,” he said, lowering his head once more, and looking through his eyebrows, “I never lend, and I never become security for any man. I shall put it down that he can have the money.”

Mr Penwynn nodded, and his manager wrote down on one side and marked off on the other.

“Any thing else?”

“Wheal Carnac’s for sale.”

“Well, so it has been for a long time.”

“Yes, but they mean to sell now, I hear; and they say it would be worth any one’s while to buy it.”

“Yes, so I suppose,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling; “but we do not invest in mines, Chynoweth. We shall be happy to keep the account of the company, though, who start. How many have failed there?”

“Three,” said Chynoweth. “There has been a deal of money thrown down that place.”

Mr Penwynn nodded and entered his private room, when Chynoweth gave one ear a rub, stood his slate upon the desk, raised the flap and let it rest on his head, and then proceeded to finish his hand at whist, evidently with satisfactory results, for he smiled and rubbed his hands, placed the cards in a corner, and next proceeded to write two or three letters, one of which, concluded in affectionate terms, he afterwards tore up.

Some hours passed, when a clerk brought in a card.

“For Mr Penwynn, sir.”

“Geoffrey Trethick,” said Mr Chynoweth, reading. “Take it in.”

The clerk obeyed, and a few minutes later he ushered the new visitor to Carnac into Mr Penwynn’s private room, where the banker and the stranger looked hard at each other for a few moments before the former pointed to a chair, his visitor being quite a different man from what he had pictured.

“Glad to see you, Mr Trethick,” he said. “I have read the letters you left for me, and shall be happy to oblige my correspondent if I can; but they seem to be quite under a misapprehension as to my powers. In the first place, though, what can I do for you?”

“Do for me?” said Geoffrey, smiling. “Well, this much. I come to you, a leading man in this great mining centre.”

Mr Penwynn made a deprecatory motion with his hand.

“Oh, I am no flatterer, Mr Penwynn,” said the visitor, bluffly. “I merely repeat what your correspondents told me, and what find endorsed here in this place.”

“Well, well,” said Mr Penwynn, as if owning reluctantly to the soft impeachment, “Penwynn and Company are a little mixed up in mines—and the fisheries.”

“Fisheries? Ah, that’s not in my line, Mr Penwynn. But to be frank with you, sir, I want work. I am a poor younger son who decided not to take to church, law, or physic, but to try to be a mining engineer. I am a bit of a chemist, too, and have studied metallurgy as far as I could. My education has taken nearly all my little fortune, which I have, so to speak, sunk in brain-work. That brain-work I now want to sell.”

“But, my dear sir,” said Mr Penwynn, “I am a banker.”

“Exactly. To several mining companies. Now, sir, I honestly believe that I am worth a good salary to any enterprising company,” said Geoffrey, growing animated, and flushing slightly as he energetically laid his case before the smooth, polished, well-dressed man, whose carefully-cut nails gently tapped the morocco-covered table which separated him from his visitor.

“May I ask in what way?” said Mr Penwynn, smiling. “Labour is plentiful.”

“Certainly,” said Geoffrey. “I have, as I tell you, carefully studied metallurgy, and the various processes for obtaining ore, especially tin, and I am convinced that I could save enormously by the plans I should put in force; and, what is more, I know I could save almost half the expense in some of the processes of smelting.”

“Indeed!” said Mr Penwynn, coolly.

“Yes; and also contrive a good many improvements in the sinking and pumping out of mines.”

“Then you have come to the right place, Mr—Mr—Mr Geoffrey Trethick,” said the banker, raising his gold-rimmed passes to glance at the visiting-card before him.

“I hope so,” said Geoffrey, with animation. “Ours is an old Cornish family, and I ought to be at home here.”

“Exactly,” said Mr Penwynn, sarcastically, “and you have come at the right time.”

“Indeed?” said Geoffrey, eagerly.

“Most opportunely; for most of our great milking companies are in a state of bankruptcy.”

“Yes, so I have heard. Well then, Mr Penwynn, if you will give me a letter or two of introduction, I should think there ought to be no difficulty in the way.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “I’m afraid you are very sanguine.”

“Well—perhaps a little, sir, but—”

“Hear me out, Mr Trethick. It seems to me you have come to the worst place in the world.”

“The worst! Why so?”

“Because every one here will look upon your schemes as visionary. If you had a vast capital, and liked to spend it in experiments, well and good. People would laugh at your failures, and applaud your successes—if you made any.”

“If?” said Geoffrey, smiling. “Then, sir, you are not sanguine?”

“Not at all,” said the banker. “You see, Mr Trethick, you will not find any one in this neighbourhood who will let you run risks with his capital and machinery, or tamper with the very inadequate returns that people are now getting from their mines. If you wanted a simple post as manager—”

“That’s what I do want,” said Geoffrey, interrupting. “The other would follow.”

“I say, if you wanted a simple post as manager,” continued the banker, as calmly as if he had not been interrupted, “you would not get it unless you could lay before a company of proprietors ample testimonials showing your experience in mining matters. Believe me, Mr Trethick, you, a gentleman, have come to the wrong place.”

“Let us sink the word gentleman in its ordinary acceptation, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, warmly. “I hope I shall always be a gentleman, but I come to you, sir, as a working man—one who has to win his income by his brain-directed hands.”

“You should have gone out to some speculative mining place, Mr Trethick,” said the banker, taking one leg across his knee and caressing it. “Nevada or Peru—Australia if you like. You would make a fortune there. Here you will starve.”

“Starve! Not if I have to help the fishermen with their nets, Mr Penwynn. I can row well, sir,” he said, laughing, “and I have muscle enough to let me pull strongly at a rope. Starve? I’ve no fear of that.”

“No, no; of course not. I mean metaphorically. But why not try the colonies or the States?”

“Because I have a mother who impoverished herself to complete my expensive university education, Mr Penwynn; and it would almost break her heart if I left England.”

“Exactly,” said the banker, with a slight sneer; “but you have come as far from civilisation as you could get in visiting Carnac. Now then, take my advice. Come up to An Morlock, and dine with me this evening—seven sharp. I can give you a bed for a night or two. Then have a run round the district, see a few of the mines, and spy out the nakedness of the land. You will soon get an indorsement of what I say. You can then go back to London with my best respects to Rundell and Sharp—most worthy people, by the way, whom I would gladly engage—and tell them you have returned a sadder but a wiser man.”

He rose as he spoke to indicate that the interview was at an end, holding out his hand, one which Geoffrey gripped heartily, as he sprang, full of energy, to his feet.

“Thank you, Mr Penwynn. I’ll come and dine with you this evening. Most happy. As to the bed—thanks, no. I am going to hunt out lodgings somewhere, for I cannot take your advice. You don’t know me, sir,” he said, looking the banker full in the eyes. “I’ve come down here to work, and, somehow or other, work I will. I have enough of the sturdy Englishman in me not to know when I am beaten. No, sir, I am not going to turn back from the first hill I meet with in my journey.”

“As you will,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling. “Till seven o’clock then. We don’t dress.”

“Thanks; I will be there,” said Geoffrey, and the door closed as he left the room.

“He has stuff in him, certainly,” said the banker, gazing at the door through which his visitor had passed. “Such a man at the head of a mine might make a good deal of money—or lose a good deal,” he added, after a pause. “He’ll find out his mistake before he is much older.”

With a careless motion of his hand the banker threw his visitor’s card into the waste-paper basket, and, at the same time, seemed to cast the young man out of his thoughts.

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.”

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.

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 like what?”

“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 the débris that 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 of débris which 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.”