The Vicar's People

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.”

He found himself wondering again why his thoughts had taken such a turn, and why he should have said “she.”

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I shall be writing a romance of a ruined mine directly,” and going on to the slope of débris he began kicking out and examining the old fragments that had been dug from the bowels of the earth, taking out his pocket-lens, and minutely inspecting each piece for traces of metallic ore, but finding little to reward his pains.

“There was a lot of money wasted here, I’ll be bound,” he exclaimed, as he turned off and once more began to follow the track.

“It’s a grand coast-line,” he thought, as he walked on past and under the huge masses of grey granite, dotted with green fern and pink stonecrop, till he found the path begin to descend rapidly into a ravine, full of ferny nooks and spots made musical by the dripping water of the springs. The place had very precipitous sides, with a bright rushing stream foaming on towards the sea, where it spread its waters over the pure sands of a tiny cove.

There were a couple of boats drawn up below a large straggling granite cottage, built evidently a portion at a time upon a shelf of rock well out of the reach of the waves; and upon a platform in front of the unlovely place, hedged in with stones, was some attempt at a garden.

So steep was the track down as he approached the place, Geoffrey could easily have leaped from this slope on to the cottage roof, which was as rugged as the walls, and altogether the dwelling had a wild, uncouth aspect, in no wise improved by some old ship wood and lumber lying about.

But this was all redeemed by the beauty of the little cove, with the breaking waves which seemed to sweep up the waters of the little stream after its gurgling course, amidst lichenous stones from where it had sprung high up the ravine out of a bower of many-tinted greens.

“Just the spot for a smuggler or a wrecker, or a fellow to build a house to boat and fish, and live away from the world. I should like to lodge here,” he continued, as his eyes wandered over the scene. “Wish I could paint, and – ah! you would come in capitally. Hallo! she’s coming to me. No, my lass,” he said, as if speaking to her, though she was too distant to hear, “it’s labour in vain. I don’t want a guide to any caves or dripping wells, or to buy specimens of ore, spar, or the like. By Jove, though, she’s very handsome. Why, she must be a gypsy.”

This was said as a young woman came into sight from the cottage below, looked up, and on catching sight of the visitor seemed to speak to some one within, and then hurried up to meet him.

As Geoffrey remarked, she was very handsome, but it was a wild, rugged, half-savage kind of beauty. Dark-eyed, brown-skinned, with a ruddy flush which showed how little she sheltered from the weather, while her abundant black hair was carelessly twisted up, and hung down in a massive knot between her shoulders. Her dress was of the commonest cotton, and slovenly made, a short print gown being tied round her waist, over a bright-coloured serge petticoat, while in one hand she held a print hood. But, in spite of her ungraceful clothing, Geoffrey could see that she was lithe, strong, and active, and there was no little natural grace in the undulations of her unfettered form, as she hurried up to meet him.

“Come here and buy some sweets,” she said, in a voice as full of command as entreaty, and as she looked him boldly yet curiously in the face, he saw that her lips were red and full, over large but beautifully white teeth.

“Sweets? Nonsense, my lass. I don’t eat sweets. What cove is this?”

“Gwennas,” said the girl. “Come down and buy some sweets. Here’s the money.”

Geoffrey stared, as the girl held out a penny in her large, well-shaped hand.

“Poor lass! A love case for a sovereign. She’s crazy,” said Geoffrey to himself, and, changing his manner, he took the coin from the girl’s hand, receiving, at the same time, a smile for reward. “What’s your name, my lass?” he said aloud.

“Bessie – Elizabeth Prawle,” said the girl, shortly. “You’re a stranger.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at her sidewise. “Do they sell sweets here?”

“Yes,” said the girl, sharply.

“And you are very fond of them, eh?”

They were going side by side towards the cottage, when the girl faced round, looked at him in a puzzled way for a moment, and then laughed merrily.

“They are not for me,” she said, sharply, as they reached the rough rocky platform in front of the cottage. “Here, father, this gentleman is going to buy some sweets.”

“Is he? Oh!”

This was uttered in a low, hoarse growl, 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.