The Vicar's People. Fenn George Manville

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