CHAPTER VII.—MATT GROWS MATRIMONIAL.
That night the young man of the caravan had curious dreams, and throughout them all moved, like a presiding fairy, Matt of Abertaw. Sometimes he was wandering on stormy shores, watching the wrecks of mighty argosies; again, he was in mysterious caverns underneath the ground, searching for and finding buried treasure; still again, he was standing on the decks of storm-tossed vessels, while the breakers thundered close at hand, and the bale-fires burned on the lonely headlands. But at all times, and in all places, Matt was his companion.
And curiously enough, Matt in his dream was very different to the Matt of waking reality—taller and brighter—in fact, as beautiful as a vision can be; so that his spirit was full of a strange sensation of love and pity, and the touch of the warm little hand filled his imagination with mysterious joy. So vivid did this foolish dream become at last, that he found himself seated on a sunny rock by the sea, by Matt’s side; and he was talking to her like a lover, with his arm around her waist; and she turned to him, with her great eyes fixed on his, and kissed him over and over again, so passionately—that he awoke!
It was blowing hard, and the rain was pelting furiously on the roof of the caravan. He tried to go to sleep again, but the face of Matt (as he had seen it in his dream) kept him for a long time awake.
“Now, young man,” he said to himself, “this is idiotic. In the first place, Matt is a child, not a young woman; in the second place, she is a vulgar little thing, not a young lady; in the third place, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for thinking of sentiment at all in such a connection. Is your brain softening, youngster? or are you labouring under the malign influence of William Jones? The kiss you gave to this unsophisticated daughter of the desert was paternal, or say, amicable; it was a very nice kiss, but it has no right to make you dream of stuff and nonsense.”
But the influence of the dream was over him, and in that half-sleeping, half-waking state, he felt like a boy in love. He found himself calculating the age of his own friend. Let him see! it was fifteen years since, in her own figurative expression, she “come ashore,” and the question remained, how old was she on that interesting occasion? As far as he could make out from her appearance, she could not be more than sixteen. For a damsel of that age, her kiss was decidedly precocious.
At last he tumbled off again, and dreamed that Matt was a young lady of beautiful attire and captivating manners to whom he was “engaged;” and her speech, strange to say, was quite poetical and refined; and they walked together, hand in hand, to a country church on a green hillside, and were just going to enter, when who should appear upon the threshold but Mr. Monk of Monkshurst? But they passed him by, and stood before the altar, where the parson stood in his white robes, and when the parson asked aloud whether any one saw any just cause or impediment why the pair should not be joined in holy matrimony, the same Monk stepped forward with Mephistophelian smile, and cried, “Yes, I do!” On which the young man awoke again in agitation, to find that it was broad daylight, and a fine fresh summer morning.
Whom should he find waiting for him when he had dressed himself and stepped from the house on wheels but Matt herself?
Yes, there she was, as wild and quaintly attired as ever, quite unlike the ethereal individual of his dreams; but for all that her smile was like sunshine, and her eyes as roguish and friendly as ever.
Conscious of his dream he blushed while greeting her with a friendly nod.
“Well, Matt? Here again, eh?” he said; adding to himself, “This won’t do at all, my gentleman; if the young person continues to appear daily, the caravan will have to ‘move on.’”
Matt had evidently something on her mind. After looking at Brinkley thoughtfully for some few minutes, she exclaimed abruptly—
“William Jones don’t like you neither. No more does William Jones’s father.”
“Dear me!” said the young man. “I’m very sorry for that.”
“He says—William Jones says—you’re come here prying and spying. Do you?”
“My dear Matt,” replied the young man lightly, “I come here as a humble artist, seeking subjects for my surpassing genius to work upon. If it is prying and spying to attempt to penetrate into the beauties of nature—both scenic, animal, and human—I fear I must plead guilty; but otherwise——”
She interrupted him with an impatient exclamation, accompanied by a hitch of her pretty shoulders.
“Don’t talk like that; for then I know you’re chaffing. Talk serious, and I’ll tell you something.”
“All right. I’ll be serious as a parson. Go ahead!”
“Mr. Monk of Monkshurst wants to marry me. He said so to William Jones.”
The information was delivered with assumed carelessness; but after it was given, Matt watched the effect of it upon the hearer with precocious interest. Brinkley opened his eyes in very natural amazement.
“Come, come, Matt; you’re joking.”
“No, I ain’t. It’s true.”
“But you’re only a child—a very nice child, I admit—but to talk of holy matrimony in such a connection is—excuse my frankness—preposterous. People don’t marry little girls.”
But Matt did not consent to this proposition at all.
“I ain’t a little girl,” she affirmed with a decisive nod of the head. “I’m sixteen, and I’m growed up.”
The young man was amused, and could not refrain from laughing heartily. But the girl’s brow darkened as she watched him, and her under lip fell as if she would like to cry.
“If you go on laughing,” she said, “I’ll run straight back home, and never come here no more.”
“Well, I’ll try to keep my countenance; but the idea is very funny. Really, now? Don’t you see it in that light yourself?”
Certainly Matt did not, to judge from the expression of her face. She turned her head away; and Brinkley saw, to his surprise, that a tear was rolling down her cheek.
“Come, Matt,” he said kindly; “you mustn’t take this so seriously. Tell me all about it—there’s a good girl.”
“I will—if you won’t laugh.”
“I won’t then—there.”
“Well, when I was lying in my bed this morning, I heard William Jones a-talking to some one. He thought I was asleep, but I got up and listened, and I heard Mr. Monk’s voice; and he said, says he, ‘She’s over sixteen years old, and I’ll marry her;’ and William Jones said, ‘Lord, Mr. Monk; what can you be a-thinking about? Matt ain’t old enough; and, what’s more, she ain’t fit to be the wife of a fine gentleman.’ Then Mr. Monk he stamped with his foot, like he does when he’s in a passion, and he said, says he, ‘My mind’s made up, William Jones, and I’m going to marry her before the year’s out; and I don’t care how soon.’ Then I heard them moving about, and I crept back to bed and pretended to be fast asleep.”
The young man’s astonishment increased. There could be no doubt of the veracity and sincerity of the speaker; and the story she told was certainly puzzling. Brinkley made up his mind, without much reflection, that if Mr. Monk wanted to go through the marriage ceremony with that child, he had some special and mysterious reason for so doing; unless—which was scarcely possible—he was of a sentimental disposition, and, in the manner of many men advanced towards middle age, was enamoured of Matt’s youth and inexperience.
“Tell me, Matt,” said Brinkley, after pondering the matter for some minutes; “tell me how long have you known this Mr. Monk?”
“Ever since I come ashore,” was the reply.
“Humph! Is he well-to-do?—rich?”
Matt nodded emphatically.
“All Abertaw belongs to him,” she said; “and the woods up there, and the farms, and the horses up at the big house, and—everything.”
“And though he is such a great person he is very friendly with William Jones?”
“Oh yes,” answered Matt; “and I think William Jones is afraid of him—sometimes; but he gives William Jones money for keeping me.”
“Oh, indeed! He gives him money, does he? That’s rather kind of him, you know.”
At this Matt shook her head with great decision, but said nothing. Greatly puzzled, the young man looked at her, and mused. It was clear that there was a mystery somewhere, and he was getting interested. Presently, he invited Matt to sit down on the steps of the caravan, and he placed himself at her side. He was too absorbed in speculation to notice how the girl coloured and brightened as they sat there together.
“You have often told me that you came ashore,” he said, after a long pause. “I should like to know something of how it happened. I don’t exactly know what this ‘coming ashore’ means. Can you explain?”
“I don’t remember,” she replied, “but I know there was a ship, and it went to pieces, and I floated to shore in a boat, or something.”
“I see—and William Jones found you?”
“Mr. Monk, he found me, and gave me to William Jones to keep.”
“I begin to understand. Of course, you were very little—a baby, in fact.”
“William Jones says I could just talk some words, and that when he took me home I called him ‘Papa.’”
“What was the name of the ship? Have you ever heard?”
“No,” said Matt.
“Did you come ashore all alone? It is scarcely possible!”
“I came ashore by myself. All the rest was drownded.”
“Was there no clue to who you were? Did nothing come ashore besides to show them who you were, or where you came from?”
Matt shook her head again. Once more the young man was lost in meditation. Doubtless it was owing to his abstraction of mind that he quietly placed his arm round Matt’s waist, and kept it there. At first Matt went very red, then she glanced up at his face, and saw that his eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the distant sand-hills. Seeing he still kept silence, she moved a little closer to him, and said very quietly—“I didn’t tell William Jones that you—kissed me!”
Brinkley started from his abstraction, and looked at the girl’s blushing face.
“Eh? What did you say?”
“I didn’t tell William Jones that you kissed me!”
These words seemed to remind the young man of the position of his arm, for he hastily withdrew it. Then the absurdity of the whole situation appeared to return upon him, and he broke into a burst of boyish laughter—at which his companion’s face fell once more. It was clear that she took life seriously, and dreaded sarcasm.
“Matt,” he said, “this won’t do! This won’t do at all!”
“What won’t do?”
“Well—this!” he answered, rather ambiguously. “You’re awfully young, you know—quite a girl, although, as you suggested just now, and, as you probably believe, you may be ‘growed up.’ You must—ha!—you must look upon me as a sort of father, and all that sort of thing.”
“You’re too young to be my father,” answered Matt, ingenuously.
“Well, say your big brother. I’m interested in you, Matt, very much interested, and I should really like to get to the bottom of the mystery about you; but we must not forget that we’re—well, almost strangers, you know. Besides,” he added, laughing again cheerily, “you are engaged to be married, some day, to a gentleman of fortune.”
Matt sprang up, with heaving bosom and flashing eyes.
“No, I ain’t!” she said. “I hate him!”
“Hate the beautiful Monk of Monkshurst! Monk the beneficent! Monk the sweet-spoken! Impossible!”
“Yes, I hate him,” cried Matt; “and—and—when he kissed me, it made me sick.”
“What, did he? Actually? Kissed you?”
As he spoke, the young man actually felt that he should like to assault the redoubtable Monk.
“Yes, he kissed me—once. If he kisses me again, I’ll stick something into him, or scratch his face.”
And Matt looked black as thunder, and set her pearly teeth angrily together.
“Sit down again, Matt!”
“I shan’t—if you laugh.”
“Oh, I’ll behave myself. Come!”—and he added as she returned to her place, “Did it make you sick when I kissed you?”
He was playing with fire. The girl’s face changed in a moment, her eyes melted, her lips trembled, and all her expression became inexpressibly soft and dreamy. Leaning gently towards him, she drooped her eyes, and then, seeing his hand resting on his knee, she took it in hers, and raised it to her lips.
“I should like to marry you,” she said, and blushing, rested her cheek against his shoulder!
Now, our hero of the caravan was a truehearted young fellow, and a man of honour, and his position had become extremely embarrassing. He could no longer conceal from himself the discovery that he had made an unmistakable impression on Matt’s unsophisticated heart. Hitherto he had looked upon her as a sort of enfant terrible, a very rough diamond; now he realized, with a shock of surprise and self-reproach, that she possessed, whether “growed up” or not, much of the susceptibility of grownup young ladies. It was clear that his duty was to disenchant her as speedily as possible, seeing that the discovery of the hopelessness of her attachment might, if delayed, cause her no little unhappiness.
In the meantime he suffered her to nestle to him. He did not like to shake her off roughly, or to say anything unkind. He glanced round into her face; the eyes were still cast down, and the cheeks were suffused with a warm, rich light, which softened the great freckles and made her complexion look, according to the image which suggested itself to his mind, like a nice ripe pear. She was certainly very pretty. He glanced down at her hands, which rested in her lap, and again noticed that they were unusually delicate and small. Her foot, which he next inspected, he could not criticize, for the boots she wore would have been a good fit for William Jones. But the whole outline of her figure, in spite of the hideous attire she wore, was fine and symmetrical, and altogether——
His inspection was interrupted by the girl herself. Starting as if from a delightful trance, she sprang to her feet and cried—
“I can’t stop no longer. I’m going.”
“But the picture, Matt?” said Brinkley, rising also. “Shan’t I finish it to-day!”
“I can’t wait. William Jones wants to send me a message over to Pencroes, and if I don’t go, he’ll scold.”
“Very well, Matt.”
“But I’ll come,” she said, smiling, “tomorrow; and I’ll come in my Sunday clothes, somehow.”
“Don’t trouble. On reflection, I think you look nicer as you are.”
She lifted her hat from the ground, and still hesitated as she put it on.
“Upon my word,” cried the artist, “those Welsh hats are very becoming. Good-bye, Matt.”
She took his outstretched hand and waited an instant, with her warm, brown cheek in profile temptingly near his lips. But he did not yield to the temptation, and after a moment’s further hesitation, in which I fear she betrayed some little disappointment, Matt released her hand and sprang hurriedly away.
“Upon my word,” muttered the young man, as he watched her figure receding in the distance, “the situation is growing more and more troublesome! I shall have to make a clean bolt of it, if this goes on. Fancy being caught in a flirtation with a wild ocean waif, a child of the wilderness, who never even heard of Lindley Murray? Really, it will never do!”
CHAPTER VIII.—THE DEVIL’S CAULDRON.
It so happened that the young man of the caravan had two considerable faults. The first fault my reader has, no doubt, already guessed—he was constitutionally lazy. The second fault will appear more clearly in the sequel: he was, also, constitutionally inquisitive. Now, his laziness was of that not uncommon kind which is capable of a great deal of activity, so long as that activity is unconscious, and not realized as being in the nature of work; and its possessor, therefore, would frequently, in his idle way, bestir himself a good deal; whereas, if he had been ordered to bestir himself, he would have yawned and resisted. Here his other constitutional defect came in, and set him prying into matters which in no way seriously concerned him. A little time before the period of his present excursion, when he was studying law in Dublin, and rapidly discovered that he loved artistic amateurship much better, he had often been known to work terribly hard at “cases” in which his curiosity was aroused; and I may add in passing that he had shown on these occasions an amount of shrewdness which would have made him an excellent lawyer, if his invincible objection to hard work, qua work, had not invariably interfered.
No sooner was he left to his own meditations, which the faithful Tim (who had fortunately been away on a foraging expedition during the episode described in my last chapter) was not at hand to disturb, than our young gentleman began puzzling his brains over the curious information she had given him. The facts, which he had no reason to question, ranged themselves under four heads:—
1. Matt had been cast ashore, fifteen years previously, at an age when she could pronounce the word “Papa.” It followed as a rational argument that she had been, say, one year old, or thereabouts.
2. Mr. Monk had found her, and given her into the care of William Jones, and had since given that worthy sums of money for taking care of her. Query, What reason had the said Monk for exhibiting so much care for the child, unless he were a person of wonderfully benevolent disposition, which my hero was not at all inclined to believe?
3. Said Monk and said Jones were on very familiar terms, which was curious, seeing the difference in their social positions. Query again, Was there any private reason, any mysterious knowledge, any secret shared in common, which bound their interests together?
4. Last and most extraordinary of all, said Monk had now expressed his wish and intention of marrying the waif he had rescued from the sea, committed to the care of said Jones, and brought up in ragged ignorance, innocent of grace or grammar, on that lonely shore. Query again, and again, and yet again, What the deuce had put the idea into Monk’s head; and was there at the bottom of it any deeper and more conceivable motive than the one of ordinary affection for a pretty, if uncultivated, child?
The more Charles Brinkley pondered all these questions, the more hopelessly puzzled he became. But his curiosity, once roused, could not rest. He determined, if possible, to get to the midriff of the mystery. So intent was he on this object, which fitted in beautifully with his natural indolence, that he at once knocked off painting for the day, and after breakfasting on the fare with which Tim had by this time appeared, he strolled away towards the sea shore.
He had not gone far when he saw approaching him a tall figure which he seemed to recognize. It came closer, and he saw that it was Mr. Monk of Monkshurst.
This time Monk was on foot. He wore a dark dress, with knickerbockers and heavy shooting boots, and carried a gun. A large dog, of the species lurcher, followed at his heels.
Brinkley was passing by without any salutation when, to his surprise, the other paused and lifted his hat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “We have met once before; and I think I have to-apologize to you for unintentional incivility. The fact is—h’m—I mistook you for a—vagrant! I did not know you were a gentleman.”
So staggered was the artist with this greeting, that he could only borrow the vocabulary of Mr. Toots—
“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” he said, attempting to pass on.
But the other persevered.
“I assure you Mr.———, Mr.——— (I have not the pleasure of knowing your name), that I had no desire of offending you; and if I did so, I beg to apologize.”
Brinkley looked keenly at the speaker. His words and manner were greatly at variance with his looks,—even with the tone of his voice. Though he smiled and showed his teeth, a dark frown still disfigured his brow, and his mouth twitched nervously as if he were ill at ease.
Regarding him thus closely, Brinkley saw that he had been somewhat mistaken as to his age. He was considerably under forty years of age, but his hair was mixed with grey, and his features strongly marked as with the scars of old passions. A handsome man, certainly; an amiable one, certainly not! Yet he had a peculiar air of power and breeding, as of one accustomed to command.
Curiosity overcame dislike, and the young man determined to receive Mr. Monk’s overture as amiably as possible.
“I dare say it was a mistake,” he said. “Gentlemen don’t usually travel about in caravans.”
“You are an artist, I am informed,” returned Monk.
“Something of that sort,” was the reply. “I paint a little for pleasure.”
“And do you find this neighbourhood suit your purpose?—It is somewhat flat and unpicturesque.”
“I rather like it,” answered Brinkley. “It is pretty in summer; it must be splendid in winter, when the storms begin, and the uneventful career of our friend William Jones is varied by the excitement of wrecks.” How Monk’s forehead darkened! But his face smiled still as he said—
“It is not often that shipwrecks occur now, I am glad to say.”
“No,” said Brinkley, drily. “They used to be common enough fifteen years ago.” Their eyes met, and the eyes of Monk were full of fierce suspicion.
“Why fifteen years ago, especially?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders.
“I was told only to-day of the loss of one great ship, at that time. Matt told me, the little foundling. You know Matt, of course?”
“I know whom you mean. Excuse me, but you seem to be very familiar with her name?”
“I suppose I am,” replied the young man. “Matt and I are excellent friends.”
Monk did not smile now; all his efforts to do so were ineffectual. With an expression of savage dislike, he looked in Brinkley’s face, and his voice, though his words were still civil, trembled and grew harsh “as scrannel pipes of straw.”
“May I ask if you purpose remaining long in the neighbourhood?”
“I don’t know,” answered the artist. “My time is my own, and I shall stay as long as the place amuses me.”
“If I can assist in making it do so, I shall be happy, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you care for rabbit shooting? If so, there is some sport to be had among the sand-hills.”
“I never shoot anything,” was the reply, “except, I suppose, ‘folly as it flies;’ though with what species of firearm that interesting sport is pursued,” he added, as if to himself, “I haven’t the slightest idea!”
“Well, good day,” said Monk, with an uneasy scowl. “If I can be of any service to you, command me!”
And, raising his hat again, he stalked away.
“Now, what in the name of all that is wonderful, does Mr. Monk of Monkshurst mean by becoming so civil?”
This was the question the young man asked himself, as he strolled away seaward. He could not persuade himself that he had wronged Monk, that that gentleman was in reality an amiable person, instead of a domineering bully; no, that suggestion was contradicted by every expression of the man’s baleful and suspicious face. What, then, could be the explanation of his sudden access of courtesy?
An idea! an inspiration! As it flashed into his mind, the young man gave vent to a prolonged whistle. Possibly, Monk was—jealous!
The idea was a preposterous one, and almost amusing. It was not to be conceived, on the first blush of it, that jealousy would make a surly man civil, a savage man gentle; it would rather have the contrary effect, unless—here Brinkley grew thoughtful—unless his gloomy rival had some sinister design which he wished to cloak with politeness?
But jealous of little Matt! Brinkley laughed heartily, when he fully realized the absurdity of the notion.
He crossed the sand-hills, and came again to the path which he and Matt had followed the previous day. A smart breeze was coming in from the sou’-west, and the air was fresh and cool though sunny; but clouds were gathering to windward, and the weather was evidently broken. Reaching the cliffs, he descended them, and came down on the rocks beneath. A long jagged point ran out from the spot where he stood, and the water to leeward of the same was quite calm, though rising and falling in strong troubled swells. So bright and tempting did it look in that sheltered place, that he determined to have a swim.
He stripped leisurely, and, placing his clothes in a safe place, took a header off the rocks. It was clear at once that he was a powerful swimmer. Breasting the smooth swell, he struck out from shore, and when he had gone about a hundred yards, floated lazily on his back and surveyed the shore.
The cliffs were not very high, but their forms were finely picturesque. Here and there were still green creeks, fringed with purple weed; and large shadowy caves, hewn roughly in the side of the crags; and rocky islets, covered with slimy weed and awash with the lapping water. A little to the right of the spot from which he had dived, the cliff seemed hollowed out, forming a wide passage which the sea entered with a tramp and a rush and a roar.
Towards this passage Brinkley swam. He knew the danger of such places, for he had often explored them both in Cornwall and the West of Ireland; but he had confidence in his own natatory skill. Approaching the shore leisurely with strong, slow strokes, he paused outside the passage, and observed that the sea swell, entering the opening, rushed and quickened itself like a rapid shooting to the fall, turning at the base of the cliff into a cloud of thin prismatic spray. Suddenly, through the top of the spray, a cloud of rock pigeons emerged, winging their flight rapidly along the crags.
Brinkley knew by the last phenomenon that the spray concealed the entrance of some large subterranean cavern. If any doubt had remained on his mind, it would have been dispelled by the appearance of a solitary pigeon, which leaving its companions, wavered lightly back, flew back through the spray with a rapid downward flight, and disappeared.
He was floating a little nearer, with an enjoyment deepened by the sense of danger, when a figure suddenly appeared on the rocks close by him, wildly waving its hands.
“Keep back! Keep back!” cried a voice.
He looked at the figure, and recognized William Jones. He answered him, but the sound of his voice was drowned by the roar from the rocks. Then William Jones shouted again more indistinctly, and repeated his excited gestures. It was clear that he was warning the swimmer against some hidden danger. Brinkley took the warning, and struck out from the shore, and then back to the place where he had left his clothes.
Watching his opportunity, he found a suitable spot and clambered in upon the rocks. He had just dried himself and thrown on some of his clothes, when he saw William Jones standing near and watching him.
“How are you?” asked the young man, with a nod. “Pray, what did you mean by going on in that absurd way just now?”
“What did I mean?” repeated William, with a little of his former excitement. “Look ye, now, I was waving you back from the Devil’s Cauldron. There’s many a man been drowned there, and been washed away Lord knows where. I’ve heerd tell,” he added solemnly, “they’re carried right down into the Devil’s own kitchen.”
“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Jones, but I’m used to such places, and I think I know how to take care of myself.”
William Jones shook his head a little angrily.
“Don’t you come here no more, that’s all!” he said, and muttering ominously to himself, retired. But he only ascended the neighbouring crag, and squatting himself there like a bird of ill-omen, kept his eyes on the stranger.
Having dressed himself, Brinkley climbed in the same direction. He found William seated on the edge of the crag, looking the reverse of amiable, and amusing himself by throwing stones in the direction of the sea.
“You seem to know this place well?” said the young man, standing over him.
William Jones replied, without looking up.
“I ought to; I were born here. Father were born here. Know it? I wish I know’d as well how to make my own fortin’.”
“And yet they tell me,” observed the other, watching him slily, “that William Jones of Abertaw has money in the bank, and is a rich man!”
He saw William’s colour change at once, but recovering himself at once, the worthy gave a contemptuous grunt, and aimed a stone spitefully at a large gull which just then floated slowly by.
“Who told you that?” he asked, glancing quickly up, and then looking down again. “Some tomfool, wi’ no more sense in un than that gull. Rich? I wish I was, I do!” Brinkley was amused, and a little curious. Laughing gaily, he threw himself down by William’s side. William shifted his seat uneasily, and threw another stone.
“My dear Mr. Jones,” said the young man, assuming the flippant style which Matt found so irritating, “I have often wondered how you get your living.”
William started nervously.
“You are, I believe, a fisherman by profession; yet you never go fishing. You possess a boat, but you are seldom seen to use it. You are not, I think, of a poetical disposition; yet you spend your days in watching the water, like a poet, or a person in love. I conclude, very reluctantly, that your old habits stick to you, and that you speculate on the disasters of your fellow creatures.”
“What d’ye mean, master?” grunted William, puzzled and a little alarmed by this style of address.
“A nice wreck, now, would admirably suit your tastes? A well-laden Indiaman, smashing up on the reef-yonder, would lend sunshine to your existence, and deepen your faith in a paternal Providence? Eh, Mr. Jones?”
“I don’t know nowt about no wrecks,” was the reply. “They’re no consarn o’ mine.”
“Ah, but I have heard you lament the good old times, when wrecking was a respectable occupation, and when there were no impertinent coastguards to interfere with respectable followers of the business. By the way, I have often wondered, Mr. Jones, if popular report is true, and if, among these cliffs or the surrounding sand-hills, there is buried treasure, cast up from time to time by the sea, and concealed by energetic persons like yourself?”
William Jones could stand this no longer. Looking as pale as it was possible for so rubicund a person to become, and glancing round him suspiciously, he rose to his feet, “I know nowt o’ that,” he said. “If there is summat, I wish I could find it; but sech things never come the way of honest chaps like me. Good mornin’, master! Take a poor man’s advice, and don’t you go swimming no more near the Devil’s Cauldron!”
So saying, he walked off in the direction of the deserted village. Presently Brinkley rose and followed him, keeping him steadily in view. From time to time William Jones looked round, as if to see whether the other was coming; lingering when Brinkley lingered, hastening his pace when Brinkley hastened his. As an experiment, Brinkley turned and began walking back towards the cliffs. Glancing round over his shoulder, he saw William Jones had also turned, and was walking back.
“Curious!” he reflected. “The innocent one is keeping me in view. I have a good mind to breathe him!”
He struck off from the path, and hastened, running rather than walking, towards the sand-hills. So soon as he was certain that he was followed, he began to run in good earnest. To his delight, William began running too. He plunged among the sandhills, and was soon engaged busily running up and down them, hither and thither. From time to time he caught a glimpse of his pursuer. It was an exciting chase. When he had been engaged in it for half an hour, and was almost breathless himself, he suddenly paused in one of the deep hollows, threw himself down on his back, and lit a cigar. A few minutes afterwards, he heard a sound as of violent puffing and breathing, and the next instant William Jones, panting, gasping, perspiring at every pore, appeared above him.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Jones?” he cried gaily. “Come and have a cigar!”
Instead of replying, William Jones looked completely thunderstruck, and after glaring feebly down and muttering incoherently, disappeared as suddenly as he had come.
Brinkley finished his cigar leisurely, and then strolled back to the caravan.
CHAPTER IX.—THE SECRET OF THE CAVE.
The young man of the caravan was now thoroughly convinced that one of two things must be true, either that William Jones had been instructed to keep a watch upon him, or that he, William Jones, had a secret of some sort which he was anxious not to have revealed. After both suppositions had been duly weighed, the second was accepted as the most likely; and it forthwith received the young man’s consideration.
If there was a secret, he argued, it was in some way connected, firstly, with William Jones’s worldly prosperity; secondly, with the reports current of treasure hidden in times past among the sand-hills or the dangerous caverns of the sea. Was it possible, after all, that those reports were true, and that in some mysterious manner Jones had become acquainted with the hiding-place? It seemed very improbable for many reasons, one of the chief being the man’s extreme poverty, which appeared to touch the very edge of sheer starvation.
A little inquiry in the neighbourhood, however, elicited the information that Jones, despite his abject penury, was certainly well-to-do, and had money in the bank of the neighbouring market town; that the ruined village of Abertaw belonged almost entirely to him; and that, in short, he was by nature and habit a miserly person, who would prefer hoarding up whatever he possessed to purchasing with it the commonest necessaries of life.
An old coastguard, whom Brinkley found next day on the station, was his chief informant.
“Don’t you believe him, sir,” said this old salt, “if he tells you he’s poor. He’s a shark, William Jones is, and couldn’t own up even to his own father. It’s my belief he’s got gold hidden somewheres among them sandhills, let alone what he’s got in the savings bank. Ah, he’s a artful one, is William Jones.”
Brinkley had said nothing of his own private suspicions, but had merely introduced in a general way the subject of Jones’s worldly position. Further conversation with Tim, who had made a few straggling acquaintances in the district, corroborated the other testimony. The young man became more and more convinced that William Jones was worth studying.
Matt had not turned up that morning. Instead of looking after her, Brinkley took another stroll towards the vicinity of the Devil’s Cauldron. He had not gone far before he discovered that he was watched again. The figure of William Jones followed in the distance, but keeping him well in view.
It was certainly curious.
He walked over to the cliffs and looked down at the scene of yesterday’s bathing adventure. A strong wind was blowing, and the waves were surging up the rocks with deafening roar and foamy spume. The place looked very ugly, particularly near the Cauldron. All the passage was churned to milky white, and the sound from beneath was, to quote an old simile, like the roar of innumerable chariots.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the head of William Jones eagerly watching, the body being hidden behind an intervening rock.
“Strange!” he reflected. “My predatory friend can’t keep his treasure, if he possesses any, down in that watery gulf. Yet whenever I come near it his manner tells me that I am ‘warm,’ as they say in the game of hide and seek.”
To test the matter a little further he set off on a brisk walk along the cliffs, leaving the Cauldron behind. He found, as he had suspected, that he was no longer followed. Returning as he came, and resuming his old position, he saw William Jones immediately re-appear.
That day he discovered no clue to the mystery, nor the next, nor the next again, though on each day he went through a similar performance. Strange to say, Matt had not put in an appearance, and for reasons of his own he had thought it better not to seek her.
On the morning of the third day—a dark chilly morning after a night of rain—Tim put his head into the caravan, where his master was seated at his easel, and grinned delightedly.
“Mr. Charles! She’s come, sor!”
“Who the deuce has come?” cried Brinkley.
“The lady, your honour, to have her picture taken. Will I show her into the parlour?”
But as he spoke Matt pushed him aside and entered. She wore her best clothes, but looked a little pale and anxious, Brinkley thought, as he greeted her with a familiar nod.
“So you’ve come at last? Tim, get out, you rascal. I thought you had given me up.”
He assumed a coldness, though he felt it not, for he had made up his mind not to “encourage” the young person.
“I couldn’t come before—they wouldn’t let me. But last night William Jones he didn’t come home, and I broke open the box and took out my clothes, and ran straight off here.”
Her face fell as she proceeded, for she could not fail to notice the coolness of the young man’s greeting.
“Well, since you have come, we’ll get to work,” said Brinkley. “It’s chilly and damp outside, so we’ll remain here in shelter.”
Matt took off her hat, and then proceeded to divest herself of her coarse jacket, revealing for the first time the low-necked silk dress beneath. Meantime the young man placed the sketch in position. Turning presently, he beheld Matt’s transformation.
Old and shabby as the dress was, torn here and there, and revealing beneath glimpses of coarse stockings and clumsy boots, it became her wonderfully. As a result of much polishing with soap and water her face shone again, and her arms and neck were white as snow. Thus attired, Matt looked no longer a long shambling girl, but a tall, bright, resplendent, young lady.
It was no use. Brinkley could not conceal his admiration. Matt’s arm alone was enough to make a painter wild with delight.
“Why, Matt, you look positively magnificent. I had no idea you were so pretty.”
The girl blushed with pleasure.
The young man worked away for a good hour and a half, at the end of which time he put the finishing touch to the sketch.
“Finis coronat opus!” he cried. “Look, Matt!”
Matt examined the picture with unconcealed delight. It was herself, a little idealized, but quite characteristic, and altogether charming.
“May I take it home?” she asked eagerly.
“I’ll get you to leave it a few days longer. I must get a frame for it, Matt, and then you shall have it all complete. Now, let me look at you again,” he said, taking her by both hands and looking up at her sunny face. “Are you pleased? Will you take care of the picture for the painter’s sake?”
Matt’s answer was embarrassing. She quietly sat down on his knee, and gave him a smacking kiss.
“Matt! Matt!” he cried. “You mustn’t!”
But she put her warm arm round his neck, and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“I should like to have pretty dresses and gold bracelets and things, and to go away from William Jones and to stay with you.”
“My dear,” said Brinkley, laughing, “you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Why not?” asked Matt simply.
“The world is censorious little one. I am a young man, you are a young lady. We shall have to shake hands soon and say good-bye. There, there,” he continued, seeing her eyes fill with tears, “I’m not gone yet. I shall stay as long as I can, only—really—you must look upon me as quite an old fellow. I am awfully old, you know, compared to you.”
He gently disengaged himself, and Matt sat down on a camp stool close by. Her face had grown very wistful and sad, “Matt,” he said, anxious to change the subject, “tell me something more about William Jones.”
“I hate William Jones. I hate everybody—but you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I feel greatly flattered. But about the gentle Jones? You say he was out all last night.”
Matt nodded.
“He goes out nigh every night,” she said, “and often don’t come home till morning, Sometimes he finds things and brings ’em. He finds bits o’ gold and old ropes and bottles o’ rum.”
“Very odd. Where?”
“He don’t tell; I know.”
“I wish you’d tell me, Matt. Do, I have a particular reason for wanting the information.”
“You won’t say I told? William Jones would be downright wild, he would.”
“I’ll keep the secret faithfully. Now.” Thus urged, Matt informed her friend that on two occasions, out of curiosity, she had followed her guardian on his nightly pilgrimages, and watched him go in the direction of the Devil’s Cauldron. On both occasions the night was very dark. On getting clear of the coastguard station, and among the sand-hills, Jones had lighted a lantern which he carried. Trembling and afraid, she had followed the light along the cliffs, then out among the sand-hills. But all at once the light and its bearer had disappeared into the solid earth, leaving her to find her way home in terror.
The explanation of all this was, in Matt’s opinion, very simple. William Jones was a bad man, and went to “visit the fairies.”
“Yes,” she cried, “and every time he goes the fairies give him summat, and he brings it home.”
“Each time you followed him,” asked Brinkley, thoughtfully, “he disappeared at about the same place?”
“Yes,” said Matt, “and the light and him sunk right down and never come up again.”
The result of the information thus communicated was to leave the young man of the caravan far more curious than ever. He determined to turn the tables on William Jones, and to watch his movements, not in the daytime, but during the summer night, waiting for his appearance in the immediate neighbourhood of the Devil’s Cauldron.
The first night he saw nothing—it was stormy, with wild gusts of rain. The second night was equally uneventful. Nothing daunted, he went for a third and last time, and lay in the moonlight on the cliffs, looking towards the village.
The night was dark and cloudy, but from time to time the moon came out with sudden brilliance on the sea, which was gently stirred by a breeze from the land.
He waited for several hours. About midnight he rose to go home. As he did so he was startled by the sound of oars, and lying down perceived a small boat approaching on a silver patch of moonlit sea.
The moon came out, and he saw that the occupant of the boat was a solitary man.
It approached rapidly, making direct for the Devil’s Cauldron. Lying down on his face and peeping over, Brinkley saw it stop short just outside the foaming passage, while the man stood up, stooped, lifted something heavy from the bottom, and threw it overboard. Then, after watching for a moment a dark object which drifted shoreward, right into the Cauldron, he rowed away until he reached a sheltered creek close to the scene of the swimming adventure. Here he ran the boat ashore and leapt out.
The next minute Brinkley heard him coming up the cliffs, trembling with excitement he lay down flat on his face and waited. Presently the man emerged on the top of the cliffs, within a few yards of Brinkley’s hiding-place. Just then the moon flashed brightly out, and Brinkley recognized him.
It was William Jones, carrying on his shoulders something like a loaded sack, and dangling from his left wrist, a horn lantern.
He looked round once or twice and then hurried towards the sand-hills. Brinkley followed stealthily. The moon now went in, and it became pitch dark. Presently Jones paused, set down his load, and lit the lantern; then he hurried on.
For fifty or sixty yards a coarse carpet of green sward covered the cliffs; then the sandhills began. Passing over the first sand-hill, Jones disappeared. Quick as thought the young man followed, and, peering over, saw the light in the hollow beneath; it rose higher and higher till it reached the top of the next sand-hill, where it paused. Crawling on hands and knees Brinkley slipped down into the hollow, and then crept upward; halfway up the mound he found a huge rock, behind which he crouched and peeped.
As he did so, William Jones, light in hand, seemed to dive down into the solid earth and disappear.
For a minute after the disappearance, Charles Brinkley lay as if petrified; and, indeed, he was altogether lost in wonder. What had happened? Had an earthquake swallowed the mysterious one, or had he tumbled down in a fit? Brinkley waited and watched, five minutes had passed, ten minutes, and still the light did not re-emerge. At last, overcome by his curiosity, Brinkley rose, and, stooping close to the ground, crept from the rock behind which he had lain concealed, and crawled across the summit of the sand-hill. Suddenly he stopped short, and went down on hands and knees, for he now clearly discerned, coming out of the solid earth or sand, the glimmer of the light.
It glimmered, then disappeared again. Just then the moon came out of her cloud, illuminating the hillocks with vitreous rays; and he perceived close by him a dark hole opening into the very heart of the hillock.
He crept closer and looked down, but could see nothing. He held his head over the hole and listened; all he heard was a dull, hollow moaning, like the sound of the sea. The light of the moon, however, enabled him to perceive that the hole had been covered with a loose piece of wood, or lid, about four feet square, and with an iron ringbolt in the centre, which lid was now lying by the side of the opening, ready to be replaced. A number of large pieces of stone, such as were strewn everywhere about the sand-hills, lay piled close by.
He lay for some time waiting and listening. All at once, far behind him, the light glimmered again. Quick as thought he rose and crept away, only just in time; for he had no sooner regained the shelter of the rock, and crouched there watching, than he saw the light re-emerge, accompanied by a human head; a human body followed, and then he clearly discerned William Jones-standing in the moonlight without the burthen he had previously carried, and holding in his hand a lantern.
Setting the lantern down, William busied himself for several minutes, and finally, having concluded the work on which he was engaged, extinguished the light. Then, after glancing suspiciously round him on every side, he walked rapidly down the sand-hill, and disappeared in the direction of the sea.
Not until he distinctly heard the splash of oars, and saw the black silhouette of the boat pass out from the shadow of the rock on to the moonlit sea, did Brinkley again begin to stir; and even then he did so very cautiously, lest his figure should be perceived against the moonlight by the lynx-eyed rower.
Creeping on hands and knees, he again crawled to the mysterious spot, and found, as he had indeed anticipated, that the hole was covered up, and the wooden lid or trapdoor so carefully covered with stones and loose sand as to be completely hidden.
His first impulse was to displace the debris, and at once to explore the mysterious place; but reflecting that he was unprovided with lights of any kind, and that the cavity below would most certainly be in total darkness, he determined to postpone his visit of inspection until daylight. By this time there was no sight or sound of the boat. Rising to his feet, he mused. It was all very well to talk of returning another time, but how was he to find the spot? The sea of sandy hillocks stretched on every side, and he knew by experience how difficult it was to distinguish one hillock from another. As to the cairns of loose stones, such cairns were nearly as numerous as the hillocks themselves.
At last he thought of the rock where he had first concealed himself. Such rocks were numerous, too; but pulling out his ease of crayons, he marked the base of the rock with a small streak of colour. Finally, remembering that the drift sand might cover this mark so made, he drew out his penknife, and made a large cross in the hard sand. Having taken these precautions, he made the best of his way down to the cliffs, and following the open green sward which fringed the crags, made the best of his way home to the caravan.
At daybreak the next day he strolled back along the crags, first taking a bird’s-eye view of the village; and perceiving no sight of William Jones, who had doubtless no suspicion that he would rise so early, he soon found the spot where he had stood overnight, watching the approach of the boat; and first reconnoitring the neighbourhood, struck off among the sand-hills. At first he was guided by footprints, but as the sand grew harder, these disappeared. At length, after a somewhat bewildering search, he found the sandhill he sought, the rock with his mark upon it, the cross marked in the ground, and finally, the well-concealed mouth of the hole.
He looked keenly to right and left. No one was visible. Stooping down he displaced the stones and loose sand, and disclosed the trap-door with its iron ring. A long pull, a strong pull, and up came the trap. Open Sesame! Behind him was a dark cavity, with a slanting path descending into the bowels of the earth.
Anxious to lose no time, he squeezed himself through the aperture, and began descending. While he did so he heard the hollow roaring he had heard the night before. As he proceeded he drew out a box of matches and a candle, which he lit. Proceeding cautiously on his back, and restraining himself with his elbows from too rapid descent, he found himself surrounded not by sand, but by solid rock, and peering downward, saw that he was looking down into a large subterranean cave.
Just beneath him was a flight of steps cut in the solid. Descending these carefully, for they were slippery as ice, he reached the bottom, and found it formed of sea-gravel and loose shells, forming indeed a decline like the sea-shore itself, to the edge of which, filling about half the cavern, the waters of the sea crept with a long monotonous moan. Approaching the water’s edge he saw facing him the solid walls of the cliff, but just at the base there was an opening, a sort of slit, almost touching the waves at all times, quite touching them when the swell rose, and through this opening crept beams of daylight, turning the waves to a clear malachite green.
The mystery was now clear enough. The cave communicated directly with the sea, but in such a way as to make an entrance for any large object impossible from that direction.
Turning his back upon the water, and holding up the candle, he examined the interior. The damp black rocks rose on every side, and from the roof hung spongy weeds and funguses like those which are to be seen in sunless vaults of wine, but piled against the inner wall was a hoard of treasures enough to make a smuggler’s mouth water or turn a wrecker’s brain.
Puncheons of rum and other spirits, bales of wool, planks of mahogany and pine, oars, broken masts, coils of rope, tangles of running rigging, flags of all nations, and other articles such as are used on ship-board; swinging tables, brass swinging lamps, masthead lanterns, and hammocks; enough and to spare, in short, to fit out a small fleet of vessels. Lost in amazement, Brinkley examined this extraordinary hoard, the accumulation doubtless of many years. All at once his eye fell upon a large canvas bag, rotten with age, and gaping open. It was as full as it could hold with pieces of gold, bearing the superscription of the mint of Spain.
Oh, William Jones! William Jones! And all this was yours, at least by right of plunder, upon the Queen’s sea-way; all this which, turned into cash, would have made a man rich beyond the dreams of avarice, was the possession of one who lived like a miserly beggar, grudged himself and his flesh and blood the common necessaries of life, and had never been known, from boyhood upward, to give a starving fellow-creature so much as a crust of bread, or to drop a penny into the poor-box. Oh, William Jones! William Jones!
The above reflections belong, not to the present writer, but to my adventurous discoverer, the captain of the caravan.
As Brinkley proceeded on his tour of inspection, he became more and more struck with wonder. Nothing seemed too insignificant or too preposterously useless for secretion in that extraordinary ship’s cavern. There were mops and brooms, there were holy-stones, there were “squeegees,” there were canisters of tinned provisions, there were bags of adamantine ship-biscuits, there were sacks of potatoes (which esculents, long neglected, had actually sprouted, and put forth leaves), there were ringbolts, there were tin mugs, and, lastly, mirabile dictu, there were books—said books lay piled on the top of a heap of sacks, and were in the last stage of mildew and decay. For what purpose had they been carried there? Certainly not to form a library, for William Jones could not read. As curiosity deepened, Brinkley opened some of the forlorn volumes, covered with mildew, and full of hideous crawling things. Most were in foreign tongues, but there were several English novels half a century old, and a book of famous “Voyages,” also in English. Near to them were several large paper rolls—ship’s charts, evidently, and almost falling to pieces. And on the top of the charts was a tiny Prayer-book, slime-covered, and dripping wet!
What possessed Brinkley to examine the Prayer-book I cannot determine, but in after years he always averred that it was an inspiration. At any rate, he did open it, and saw that the fly-leaf was covered with writing, yellow, difficult to decipher, fast fading away. But what more particularly attracted his attention was a loose piece of parchment, fastened to the title-page with a rusty pin, and covered also with written characters.
Fixing the candle on a nook in the damp wall, he inspected the title-page, and deciphered these words:—
“Christmas Eve, 1864, on board the ship Trinidad, fast breaking up on the Welsh coast. If any Christian soul should find this book and these lines where I place them, if they sink not with their bearer (on whom I leave my last despairing blessing) to the bottom of the sea, or if God in His infinite mercy should spare and save the little child” (the book trembled in his hand, as he read. The writing went on): “I cast her adrift in her cradle in sight of shore, on a little raft made by my own hands. ’Tis a desperate hope, but He can work miracles, and if it is His will, she may be saved. Attached to this holy book are the proofs of her poor dead mother’s marriage and my darling’s birth. May she live to inherit my name. Signed, Matthew Thorpe Monk, Colonel, 15th Cavalry, Bengal.”
The mystery was deepening indeed! At last Brinkley thrust the book and its contents into his pocket, and, after one look round, took the candle, and made his way up the rocks, and out of the cave. When he saw the light of day above him, he blew out the light, and crawled up through the aperture. Then, standing on the lonely sand-hill, he surveyed the scene on every side. There was no sign of any living soul. Carefully, but rapidly, he returned the trap-door to its place, covered it with the stones and liberal handfuls of loose sand, and walked away, taking care, for the first hundred yards, to obliterate his footprints as he went.