"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--"