The Vicar's People. George Manville Fenn
by a strongly-built, rugged fisher-looking man, in a blue Jersey, and very thick flannel trousers, braced up right over his chest. He wore no hat, but a shaggy crop of grizzled hair shaded his weather-beaten, inflamed face, as he sat on a block of granite, as rugged as himself, overhauling a long fishing-line, whose hooks he was sticking in pieces of blackened cork.
He looked up for a moment frowningly at the visitor, with a pair of dark piercing eyes, drew a great gnarled hand across his mouth to wipe away the tobacco-juice, lowered his eyes, got up, stooped, and displayed an enormous patch upon his trousers, reseated himself, and went on with his work.
“Come in,” said the girl, quickly, and she led the way into a large low room, roughly but well furnished, and scrupulously clean. It was a compound of rustic farmhouse kitchen with a flavour of parlour and ship’s chandlery or boating store. For along the massive beams, and wherever a great peg could be driven in, hung nets, lines, and other fishing gear. A ship’s lantern hung here; there was a binnacle there. Odds and ends of cabin furniture were mingled with well-polished Windsor chairs, and brass decorated chests of drawers. There was plenty of ornamentation too. Shells, a sword-fish, dried marine animals, sponges and seaweeds, masses of coral, fragments of bright spar, and some gay pieces of china, lay upon chimney-piece and shelves; in addition to which there was the model of a full-rigged ship in full sail, fitted up in a great glass case.
“Quite an old curiosity shop,” thought Geoffrey, as he saw all this at a glance, and noted that the well-cleaned floor was sprinkled with sand, save where a great home-made shred rug lay in front of the bright black fireplace, on whose hob a great copper kettle shone from its dark corner like a misted sun.
The light came through the open door, and formed quite a Rembrandtish picture in the low, darkened room, falling as it did in mote-sparkling rays, like a band of sunbeams, right across a bent figure in an old well-washed chintz-covered armchair.
The first thing that struck Geoffrey was the figure’s occupation. The day was warm, but she was seated very close to the fire, airing a garment carefully spread over her knees, and from which came a most unmistakable odour of scorching, reminding the visitor very strongly of his late visit to Mrs. Mullion’s on the cliff. A pair of very thin white hands were busy adding mesh after mesh to a herring net, while as they entered, the bent down head was eagerly raised, and Geoffrey saw a face whose white hair and pallid, piteous look, told its own tale, as the weary-looking eyes scanned his face.
“Another customer, mother,” said the girl, quickly. “Oh, why don’t you be more careful? you’ll burn yourself to death.”
“It’s cold, Bessie; it’s cold, dear, but that’s well—that’s well,” said the invalid, whose hands began to tremble, so that she missed a stitch or two in her net. “Be quick, dear, be quick.”
“Yes, mother. Did you say a pen’orth, sir?”
“No, I want sixpen’orth, my lass,” said Geoffrey.
The girl darted a grateful look at him as she took a covered glass jar from the window-sill, and as she rattled the coloured sticks of candy which were its contents, Geoffrey heard a sigh of satisfaction from the invalid, a glance showing him that the head was once more bent down over the net.
“Fine weather, Mrs. Prawle,” said Geoffrey, hazarding a shot, as the girl busily rustled a paper bag.
“Yes, yes,” said the invalid, looking up at him, “I suppose it is, sir. I hope you will come again.”
The girl darted a quick look at him.
“Oh, yes! of course,” replied Geoffrey, whose eyes wandered over the pitiable picture before him. “I shall come again.”
“I’m so anxious to get up a connection, sir,” continued the invalid, “and Gwennas Cove is rather out of the way.”
“I should think it is—rather!” said Geoffrey to himself, and he could hardly refrain from smiling at the poor woman’s idea of getting up a connection in that wild spot.
“Yes, Bess, take the money. Thank you kindly, sir. Good-day, sir; good-day;” and the invalid began to carefully turn the airing garment upon her knees, though there was no more dampness in it than in one of the red-hot pieces of wood over which she hung.
Geoffrey felt disposed to stay, but his time was short, and, after a cheery “good-day,” he strode out, followed by the girl, to find that the rugged-looking old man was gone, patch and all; but the girl hurried on before him for a few yards, as if to be out of hearing at the cottage, and then held out her hand.
“What? Good-by!” said Geoffrey, smiling, and he held out his own.
“No, no, nonsense,” said the girl, flushing. “Give me the sweeties, and take your money back.”
“Then you carry that on to please the old lady, eh?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, of course,” replied the girl, sharply. “Didn’t you know?”
“Not I; but I guessed as much.”
“Mother’s been ill these twenty years, and has to be carried to her bed. She thinks she’s a burthen, so we do it to humour her.”
“I thought as much.”
“Then why don’t you take your money?” said a hoarse, rough voice, that chased away all the sentiment of the affair, and Geoffrey started round to see that the fierce-looking old man was leaning over a block of granite, his arms crossed, and his chin resting upon them. “Take your money and go.”
“No,” said Geoffrey, in his off-hand way. “No: thanks. I want the sweets for the children.”
“Yours?” said the old fellow, roughly.
“Mine? Hang it, man; no.”
Geoffrey turned to the girl, and looked at her, laughing merrily; but this seemed to irritate the old man, who came fiercely from behind the granite block, thrusting his hands far down into his pockets, and scowling angrily.
“Look here, young man,” he said, hoarsely, “you’re a stranger here, and don’t know us.”
“Not yet,” said Geoffrey, “but I dare say I soon shall.”
“Take your money, and don’t come again,” said the old man, hoarsely.
“You are a nice, pleasant-spoken old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, nonchalantly, as he coolly opened the paper bag, and took out one of the sticks of candy. “Have a sweet?”
The man uttered a fierce growl that sounded like an oath, and took a step forward in a menacing way, but the girl sprang forward, and threw her arm across his chest.
“D’yer want me to hurl you off the rocks?” he said savagely.
“Be quiet, father,” cried the girl. “The gentleman means no harm.”
“Go in, Bess,” he shouted, and, shaking her off, he went close up to Geoffrey, who did not give way an inch, but looked full in the fierce, repulsive face thrust close to his, till the old man lowered his eyes, and stepped on one side, muttering angrily.
“Do you always treat strangers like this, Master Prawle?” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“Go away, I tell ye,” said the old man, fiercely. “We want no dealings with the people.”
“Don’t anger father, sir,” said the girl, who, however, seemed to be in no wise put out by the old man’s savage resentment.
“Not I, my girl,” replied Geoffrey; “but what is the matter with your mother?”
“She fell off the cliff one night,” said the girl, quickly.
“Tell him to go, Bess,” growled her father. “We don’t want him here.”
“I asked the gentleman to come, father,” said the girl. Then, turning