The Vicar's People Part 31

"I love turned lobster," said Geoffrey, "especially such lobsters as you get down here. I shall go and attack him for a portion."

"Don't, please, Mr Trethick," said Madge, earnestly. "There is a delicious sole for you. It came from the trawler this morning, and--and I cooked it myself."

"Egged and crumbed; Miss Mullion?"

"Yes," she said, eagerly.

"Humph! Well, I think I'll compound for the fresh sole, and let Uncle Paul have his lobster in peace."

"You shall have it directly, Mr Trethick," cried Madge, looking brightly in the young man's face. "I--I brought you some forget-me-nots this morning."

"Yes," he said, smiling, "I was admiring them. They are beautiful; just like your eyes."

"For shame! Mr Trethick; what nonsense!"

"No," he said, "it's a fact, and you've got the downiest of cheeks, and the reddest of lips that pout up at one as if asking to be kissed; and really, Madge, if they ask like that I shall be obliged to kiss them."

"I'd never forgive you if you did," said Madge, with a look that bade him go on.

"Well, I'm afraid I must chance the forgiveness," he said, merrily.

"It's a great risk, but you may be merciful," and he playfully caught her in his arms and kissed her, Madge making a pretence at resistance as she triumphantly told herself that she knew she could pique him and master his coldness.

"Oh! Mr Trethick!" she exclaimed.

"Madge! Here, I say, Madge!" cried the old man, whose door was heard to open sharply.

"Yes, uncle," cried the girl, reddening.

"Oh, you're there, are you," he said, stumping across the little pa.s.sage. "What are you doing there, madam?"

"Defending your curried lobster, most bravely, old gentleman," said Geoffrey, coming to the rescue, but asking himself how he could have been such an a.s.s, and whether he had not caught the complaint so prevalent in Carnac.

"How the devil did you know I had got curried lobster?" cried the old man.

"Smelt it," said Geoffrey, curtly. "Is it good?"

"No, it isn't good," cried the old man, "and I want to know why--why my niece can't let the girl wait upon you."

"Why, you're jealous, old boy," cried Geoffrey. "Hang it all! are you to have all the good things, and best attention in the house? Let me have my sole in the next room, Miss Mullion. Your uncle's low-spirited this morning, and I'll go and keep him company. Come along, old fellow."

To Madge's great relief, and Uncle Paul's utter astonishment, the result being a grateful look from the one and an angry snarl from the other, Geoffrey thrust his arm through that of the old man, marched him into his own room, and half forced him into his chair.

"There, begin your breakfast," cried Geoffrey; "it's getting cold."

"It's always getting cold, and how the devil am I to eat my lobster without salt? Every thing's forgotten now, so that you may get what you want."

"Rubbis.h.!.+" said Geoffrey, taking a chair.

"It is not rubbish, sir. Didn't I see that jade exchanging glances with you just now? and she's always in your room."

"Let the poor girl alone, and don't worry her into hysterics, at all events not until I have got my sole," cried Geoffrey; "and don't talk stuff about what you don't understand. What paper's that?"

"_Times_. What I don't understand?" cried Uncle Paul, who was foaming with rage at being so unceremoniously treated.

"Yes, what you don't understand. Thanks, Miss Mullion, that will do.

But there's no salt."

"I do forget so now," said poor Madge.

"Yes, and what can you expect, if you stuff your brains full of other things?" snarled Uncle Paul, with the result that Madge beat a hasty retreat, and the maid came in with the salt and the rest of the breakfast.

"Now look here, Uncle Paul," said Geoffrey, as the old man, after growling and snarling a little over his curry, took a liqueur of brandy in a very small cup of coffee, and seemed to calm down, "you are a shrewd old fellow."

"Shrewd?" he cried, "I'm an old fool, a lunatic, an a.s.s, or I should never have brought you up here."

"Ah! we all do foolish things sometimes."

"Yes, even to running after artful, coquetting jades of girls."

"Well," said Geoffrey--"By George! what a capital sole, flaky and creamy as can be. Try a bit."

"Curse your sole!" snarled the old man, with his mouth full of curry.

"You mean the fish, I hope," said Geoffrey, laughing. "Let's see; what was I saying? Oh! I know, about doing foolish things. I've done a great many in my time, but running after coquettes was never one of them."

"Nor yet indulging in mine moons.h.i.+ne?"

"Moons.h.i.+ne, eh? Well that brings me to what I was going to say. Now, look here, Uncle Paul."

"Confound you, sir, don't stick yourself on to me as a relative. You'll want to borrow money next."

"Very likely," said Geoffrey.

"Ha-ha-ha! he-he-he!" chuckled the old man, with his face lighting up.

"I should like to see you doing it. You're a clever fellow, Master Trethick, but I don't quite see you getting the better of me there."

"That's right," said Geoffrey. "Now you look yourself again." Uncle Paul's face was transformed on the instant by an aspect of wrath, but Geoffrey took no notice, only went on with his breakfast and talked.

"Look here, old gentleman, from what I hear, some fifty thousand pounds went down that Wheal Carnac?"

"Quite. Fool's money," said Uncle Paul. "Give me that thick bit of the sole with the roe in."

"I don't know about fool's money," said Geoffrey, helping him to the choice piece of fish. "Now I've had some good looks at that place, and I'm beginning to be convinced that a little enterprise freshly brought to bear would result in good returns."

"Exactly," said Uncle Paul, grinning, "and you'd like me to invest a thousand pounds, and nine other fools to do the same, and to appoint you manager, with a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds a year, and Amos Pengelly, the mad preacher, as your foreman, at a hundred. I saw you through a gla.s.s, you two, poking and picking about."

"Well, I should like a hundred a year for Pengelly," said Geoffrey, "and he'd be well worth it."