The Vicar's People. Fenn George Manville

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