Our story is now bound to follow; in the footsteps of Matt, who, in quitting the presence of her artist-friend, walked rapidly along the sand-encumbered road in the direction of the sea.
Skirting the lake upon the left hand, and still having the ocean of sand-hills upon her right, she gradually slackened her pace. A spectator, had he been by, would have doubtless observed that the change was owing to maiden meditation; that, in other words, Matt had fallen into a brown study.
Presently she sat down upon a convenient stone, or piece of rock, and, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, looked for some minutes at vacancy. At last she rose, flushing warmly, and murmuring something to herself.
The something was to this effect:
“His hands are as white as a lady’s when he pulls off them gloves, and he said I was as pretty as my picture.”
I can only guess at the train of reasoning which led to this soliloquy, and express my opinion that Matt had well-developed ideas on the subject of the sexes. True, she was not above sixteen, and had little or no experience of men, none at all of men who were both young and good-looking. Nevertheless, she was not insensible to the charms of a white hand, and other tokens of masculine refinement and beauty.
By a natural sequence of ideas she was led to stretch out her own right hand and look at it critically. It was very brown, and covered with huge golden freckles. The inspection not being altogether satisfactory she thrust both her hands irritably into the pockets of her jacket, and walked on.
Leaving the lake behind her, she followed the road along a swampy hollow, down which the very shallowest of rivulets crept along to the sea, now losing itself altogether in mossy patches of suspicious greenness, again emerging and trickling with feeble glimmers over pebble and sand. Presently she left the road and came upon a primitive wooden bridge, consisting of only one plank, supported on two cairns of stone. Here she paused, and, seeing a red-legged sand-piper running about on the edge of the water just below her, made a gesture like a boy’s throwing a stone, whereon the sand-piper sprang up chirping, and flew along out of sight.
By this time she was in full sight of the sea. Dead calm, and covered with rain-coloured shadows, it touched the edges of the flat sands about a mile away, and left one long creamy line of changeless foam.
The sands themselves stretched away to the westward far as eye could see. But to the left and eastward, that is to say, in the direction towards which she was going, there was a long rocky promontory with signs of human habitation. Breaking into a swing-like trot, Matt hastened thither, following a footpath across marshy fields.
In due time she came out upon a narrow and rudely made road which wound along the rocky promontory, at low water skirting the sand, at high water, the sea. The first house she reached was a wooden lifeboat house, lying down in a creek; and it being then low tide, at some distance from the water’s edge. On the roadside above the house was a flagstaff, and beneath the flagstaff a wooden seat. All was very still and desolate, without a sign of life; but a little further along-the road was a row of cottages which seemed inhabited, and were, in fact, the abodes of the coastguard. Instead of lingering here Matt proceeded on her way until she reached, what, at first sight, looked like the beginning of a village, or small town. There were houses on each side of the road, some of them several stories high; but close inspection showed that most of them were roofless, that few of them possessed any windows or doors, and that nearly all were decayed and dilapidated from long disuse, while not a few had a blasted and sinister appearance, as if blackened by fire. And still there was no sign of any human soul. Suddenly, however, the street came to an end, and Matt found herself on a sort of rocky platform overlooking the sea; and on this platform, shading his eyes from the blazing sun, and looking out seaward, was a solitary man.
So intent was he on his occupation that he was unconscious of Matt’s approach till she was standing by his side. He turned his eyes upon her for a moment, and then once more gazed out to sea.
A short, plump, thickset man, with a round, weather-beaten face, which would have been good-humoured but for its expression of extreme watchfulness and greed. The eyes were blue, but very small and keen; the forehead low and narrow; the hair coarse and sandy; the beard coarser and sandier still. He might have been about fifty years of age. His dress was curious: consisting of a yellow sou’-wester, a pair of seaman’s coarse canvas trousers, and a blue pilot jacket, ornamented with brass buttons which bore the insignia of Her Majesty’s naval service.
Presently, without turning his eyes again from the far distance, the man spoke in a husky, far-away whisper:—
“Matt, do you see summat out yonder?” Matt strained her gaze through the dazzling sunlight, but failed to discern any object on the light expanse of water.
“Look ye now,” continued the man; “it may be drifting weed, or it may be wreck; but it’s summat. Look again.”
“Summat black, William Jones?”
“Yes. Coming and going. Now it comes, and it’s black; now it goes, and the water looks white where it was. If it isn’t wreck, it’s weed; if it ain’t weed, it’s wreck. And the tide’s flowing, and it’ll go ashore afore night at the Caldron Point, if I wait for it. But I shan’t wait,” he added eagerly. “I’ll go and overhaul it now.”
He looked round suspiciously, and then said, “Matt, did you see any of them coastguard chaps as you come along?”
“No, William Jones.”
“Thought not. They’re up Pencroes way, fooling about; so there’s a chance for a honest man to look arter his living without no questioning. You come along with me, and if it is summat, I’ll gie thee tuppence some o’ these fine days.”
As he turned to go, his eye fell for the first time on her attire.
“What’s this, Matt? What are you doing in your Sunday clothes?”
The girl was at a loss how to reply. She blushed scarlet and hung down her head. Fortunately for her the man was too absorbed in his main object of thought to catechize her further. He only shook his fat head in severe disapprobation, and led the way down to a small creek in the rocks, where a rough coble was rocking, secured by a rusty chain.
“Jump in and take the paddles. I’ll sit astarn and keep watch.”
The girl obeyed and leapt in; but before sitting down she tucked up her dress to her knees to avoid the dirty water in the bottom of the boat. William Jones followed, and pushed off with his hands. Calm as the water was there was a heavy shoreward swell, on which they were immediately uplifted with some danger of being swept back on the rocks; but Matt handled the paddles like one to the manner born, and the boat shot out swiftly on the shining sea.
The sun was burning with almost insufferable brightness, and the light blazed on the golden mirror of the water with blinding refracted rays. Crouching in the stern of the boat, William Jones shaded his eyes with both hands, and gazed intently on the object he had discovered far out to sea. Now and then he made a rapid motion to guide the girl in her rowing, but he did not speak a word.
Oh, how hot it was out there on the sun-scorched waves! For some time Matt pulled on in silence, but at last she could bear it no longer, and rested on her oars, with the warm perspiration streaming down her freekled cheeks.’
“Pull away, Matt,” said the man, not looking at her. “You ain’t tired, not you!”
With a long-drawn breath Matt drew in the oars, and swift as thought peeled off her jacket and threw off her hat, leaving her head exposed to the burning sun.
Now the silk gown she wore had evidently been used by its original owner as a festal raiment, for it had been cut low, and had short sleeves. So Matt’s shoulders and arms were perfectly bare, and very white they looked in contrast with her sun-freckled hands, her sunburnt face, and her warm brown neck. Her bust was as yet undeveloped, but her neck and shoulders were fine, and her arms beautifully moulded. Altogether, her friend the painter, could he have seen her just then, would have regarded her with increasing admiration.
Freed from the encumbrance of her jacket, she now pulled away with easy grace and skill. Further and further the boat receded from shore, till the promontory they had left was a couple of miles away. Suddenly William Jones made a sign to the girl to stop, and stood up in the boat to reconnoitre.
The object at which he had been gazing so long was now clearly visible. It consisted of something black, floating on a glassy stretch of water, and surrounded by fragments of loose scum or foam; it was to all appearance motionless, but was in reality drifting wearily shoreward on the flowing tide.
William Jones now evinced increasing excitement, and urged his companion to hurry quickly forward—which she did, putting out all her strength in a series of rapid and powerful strokes. Another quarter of an hour brought them to the spot where the object was floating. Trembling with eagerness, the man leant over the boat’s side with outstretched hands.
As he did so Matt turned her head away with a curious gesture of dread.
“What is it, William Jones?” she asked, not looking at him. “It isn’t—you know—one o’ them?”
“No, it ain’t!” replied the man, leaning over the side of the coble, and tilting the gunwale almost to the water’s edge; “Too early for them, Matt. If they comes, it won’t be till Sunday’s tide. They’re down at the bottom now, and ain’t yet rose. Easy! Lean t’other way! So there—look out!”
As he spoke he struggled with something in the water, and at last, with an effort which almost capsized the boat, pulled it in. Matt looked now, and saw that it was a small flat wooden trunk, covered with pieces of slimy weed. Floating near it were several pieces of splintered wood which seemed to have formed part of a boat. These, too, William secured, and threw down on the foot-board beneath him.
“It’s a box, that’s what it is,” cried Matt.
“It’s a box, surely,” said Jones. “And it’s locked, too. And look ye now. I misdoubt there’s nowt inside, or mayhap it would have sunk, Howsomever, we’ll see!”
After an unavailing effort to force it open with his hands, he drew forth a large clasp-knife, worked away at the lock, and tried to force open the lid, which soon yielded to his efforts, as the action of the salt water had already begun to rot the wood. On being thus opened, the box was found to contain only a couple of coarse linen shirts, an old newspaper, two or three biscuits, and half a bottle of some dark fluid.
After examining these articles one by one, William Jones threw them back into the box with gestures of disgust, retaining only the bottle, which he uncorked and applied to his lips.
“Rum!” he said, smacking his lips and nodding at Matt. Then re-corking the bottle carefully he returned it to the box, and standing up, reconnoitred the sea on every side. But nothing else rewarded his eager search; he threw himself down in the stem of the boat, and ordered Matt to pull back to shore.
As they went he closed one eye thoughtfully, and mused aloud: “Night afore last it blew half a gale from the south’ard. This here box came awash from the east coast of Ireland. Maybe it was a big ship as was lost; them planks was part of a wessel’s long boat. More’s coming if the wind don’t come up from the norrard. The moon’s full to-night and to-morrow. I’ll tell the old ’un, and keep a sharp, look-out off the Caldron Pint.”
Matt rowed on steadily till they came within a quarter of a mile of the shore, when William Jones stood up again and reconnoitred the prospect inland.
“Pull in, Matt!” he said, after a minute. “All’s square!”
Soon afterwards the boat reached the rocks.. William Jones sprang out, and running up to the platform above, took another survey. This being satisfactory, he ran down again and lifted the box out of the boat, carrying it with ease under one arm.
“Make the boat fast,” he said in a husky whisper, “and bring them bits o’ wood along with you for the fire. I’ll cut on to the cottage with this here. It ain’t much, but it’s summat; so I’ll carry it clean out o’ sight before them precious coastguards come smelling about.”
With these words he clambered up the rocks with his burthen, leaving Matt to follow leisurely in his wake.
Not far from the spot where William Jones had landed, and removed some little distance from the deserted village with its desolate main street and roofless habitations, there stood a low one-storied cottage, quite as black and forbidding-looking as any of the abandoned dwellings in its vicinity. It was built of stone, and roofed with slate, but the doorway was composed of old ship’s timber, and the one small window it contained had originally formed the window of a ship’s cabin. Over the door was placed, like a sign, the wooden figure-head of a young woman, naked to the waist, holding a mirror in her hand, and regarding herself with remarkable complacency, despite the fact that accident had deprived her of a nose and one eye, and that the beautiful red complexion and jet black hair she had once possessed had been entirely washed away by the action of the elements, leaving her all over of a leprous pallor. The rest of the building, as I have suggested, was of sinister blackness, though here and there it was sprinkled with wet sea sand. Sand, too, lay on every side, covered a small patch, originally meant for a garden, and drifted thickly up to the very door.
To this cottage William Jones ran with his treasure trove, and, entering in without ceremony, found himself in almost total darkness—for the light which crept through the blackened panes of the small windows was only just sufficient to make darkness visible. But this worthy seaside character, having, in addition to a cat’s predatory instincts, something of a cat’s power of vision, clearly discerned everything in the chamber he just entered—a rude stone-paved kitchen, with an open fireplace, and no grate, black rafters overhead, from which were hung sundry lean pieces of bacon, a couple of wooden chairs, a table, and in one corner a sort of bed in the wall, where a human figure was reposing. Setting down the trunk on the floor, he marched right over to the bed, and unceremoniously shook the individual lying upon it, whom he discovered to be snoring and muttering in a heavy sleep. Finding that he did not wake with shaking, William Jones bent down and cried lustily in his ear—
“Wreck! wreck ashore!”
The effect was instantaneous. The figure rose up in bed, disclosing the head and shoulders of a very old man, who wore a red cotton nightcap, and whose hair and beard were as white as snow.
“Eh? Wheer? Wheer?” he cried in a shrill treble, looking vacantly around him.
“Wake up, old ’un!” said William, seizing him, and shaking him again. “It’s me, William Jones.”
“William? Is it my son William?” returned the old man, peering out into the darkness.
“Yes, father. Look ye now, you was a-talking again in your sleep, you was. A good thing no one heerd you but your son William. Some o’ these days you’ll be letting summat out, you will, if you go on like this.”
The old man shook his head feebly, then clasping his hands together in a kind of rapture, he looked at his son, and said—
“Yes, William, I was a-dreaming. Oh, it was such a heavingly dream! I was a-standing on the shore, William, and it was a-blowing hard from the east, and all at once I see a ship as big as an Indiaman, come in wi’ all sail set, and go ashore; and I looked round, William dear, and there was no one nigh but you and me; and when she broke up, I see gold and silver and jewels come washing ashore just like floating weeds, and the drownded, every one of ’em, had rings on their fingers, and gold watches and cheens, and more’n that, that their hands was full of shining gold; and one on ’em—a lady, William—had a bright dimond ring, as big as a walnut; but when I tried to pull it off, it wouldn’t come—and just as I pulled out my leetle knife to cut the finger off, and put it in my pocket, you shook me, William, and woke me up. Oh! it was a heavingly dream!”
William Jones had listened with ill-disguised interest to the early part of this speech, but on its conclusion, he gave another grunt of undissembled disgust.
“Well, you’re awake now, old ’un, so jump up. I’ve brought summat home. Look sharp, and get a light.”
Thereupon the old man, who was fully dressed, in a pair of old woollen trousers and a guernsey, slipped from the bed, and began fumbling about the room. He soon found what he wanted—a box of matches and a rude home-made candle, fashioned of a long, coarse reed dipped in sheep’s tallow, but owing to the fact that he was exceedingly feeble and tremulous, he was so long in lighting up that his gentle son grew impatient.
“Here, give ’un to me!” said William. “You’re wasting them matches just as if they cost nowt. A precious father you are, and no mistake.”
The candle being lit and burning with a feeble flame, he informed the old man of what he had found. In a moment the latter was down on his knees, opening the box, and greedily examining its contents. But William pushed him impatiently away, and closed the lid with a bang.
“Theer, enough o’ that, old ’un! You hold the light while I carry the box in and put it away.”
“All right, William dear; all right,” returned the old man, obeying gleefully. “I know’d we should have luck, by that beautiful dream.”
The two men—one holding the light and the other carrying the trunk—passed through a door at the back of the kitchen and entered an inner chamber. This chamber, too, contained a window, which was so blocked up however by lumber of all kinds that little or no daylight entered. Piled up in great confusion were old sacks, some partly full, some empty, coils of rope, broken oars, broken fragments of ships’ planks, rotten and barnacled, a small boat’s rudder, dirty sails, several oilskin coats, bits of iron ballast, and other flotsam and jetsam; so that the chamber had a salt and fish-like smell, suggesting the hold of some vessel. But in one corner of the room was a small wooden bed, with a mattrass and coarse bed-clothing, and hanging on a nail close to it was certain feminine attire which the owner of the caravan would have recognized as the garb worn by Matt on the morning of her first appearance.
Placing the box down, William Jones carefully covered it with a portion of an old sail.
“It’s summat, but it ain’t much,” he muttered discontentedly. “Lucky them coastguards didn’t see me come ashore. If they did, though, it wouldn’t signify; for what’s floating on the sea belongs to him as finds it.”
A sound startled him as he spoke, and looking round suspiciously he saw Matt entering the room, loaded with broken wood. But she was not alone; standing behind her in the shadow was a man—none other, indeed, than Monk of Monkshurst.
While Matt entered the room to throw down her load of wood Monk stood in the doorway. His quick eye had noted the movements of father and son.
“More plunder, William Jones?” he asked grimly.
In a moment William Jones was transformed. The keen expression of his face changed to one of mingled stupidity and sadness; he began to whine.
“More plunder, Mr. Monk?” he said; “no, no; the days for finding that is gone. Matt and me has been on the shore foraging for a bit o’ firewood,—that be all. Put it down, Matt; put it down.”
Matt did as she was told: opening her arms, she threw her load into a corner of the room; then William Jones hurried the whole party back into the kitchen.
The men seated themselves on benches; but Matt moved about the room to get a light. The light as well as everything else was a living illustration of the meanness ol William Jones. It consisted, not of a candle, but of a long rush, which had been gathered from the marshes by Matt, and afterwards dried and dipped in grease by William Jones. Matt lit it, and fixed it in a little iron niche which was evidently made for the purpose and which was attached to a table near the hearth. When the work was finished she threw off her hat and jacket, retired to the further end of the hearth, and sat down on the floor.
During the whole of this time Mr. Monk had been watching her gloomily; and he had been watched in his turn by William Jones. At last the latter spoke.
“Matt’s growed,” said he; “she’s growed wonderful. Lord bless us! she’s a bit changed, she is, sin’ that night when you found her down on the shore. Why, her own friends wouldn’t know her!”
Mr. Monk started and frowned.
“Her friends?” he said; “what friends?”
“Why, them as owns her,” continued William Jones; “if they wasn’t all drownded in the ship what she came ashore from, they must be somewheer. Mayhap some day they’ll find her, and reward me for bringin’ her up a good gal,—that’s what I allus tell her.”
“So that’s what you always tell her, do you?” returned Monk grimly. “Then you’re a fool for your pains. The girl’s got no friends—haven’t I told you that before?”
“Certainly you have, Mr. Monk,” returned William Jones meekly; “but look ye now, I think——”
“You’ve no right to think,” thundered Monk; “you’re not paid for thinking; you’re paid for keeping the girl, and what more do you want?—Matt,” he continued in a softer tone, “come to me.”
But Matt didn’t hear—or, at any rate, did not heed; for she made no movement. Then Monk, gazing intently at her, gave vent to the same remark as William Jones had done a few hours before.
“Where have you been to-day,” he said, “to have on that frock?”
Again Matt hung her head and was silent. Monk repeated his question; and seeing that he was determined to have an answer, she threw up her head defiantly and said, with a tone of pride in her voice—
“I put it on to be took!”
“To be took?” repeated Monk.
“Yes,” returned Matt; “to have my likeness took. There be a painter chap here that lives in a cart; he’s took it.”
It was curious to note the changes in Mr. Monk’s face: at first he tried to appear amiable; then his face gradually darkened into a look of angry suspicion.
Matt never once withdrew her eyes from him—his very presence seemed to rouse all that was bad in her—and she glared at him through her tangled locks in much the same manner that a shaggy terrier puppy might gaze at a bull which it would fain attack, but feared on account of its superior strength.
“Matt,” said Mr. Monk again, “come here.”
This time she obeyed; she rose slowly from her seat and went reluctantly to his side.
“Matt, look me in the face,” he said; “do you know who this painter is?”
Matt shook her head.
“How many times have you seen him?”
“Twice.”
“And what has he said to you?”
“A lot o’ things.”
“Tell me one thing.”
“He asked me who my mother was, and I told him I hadn’t got none.”
Mr. Monk’s face once more grew black as night.
“So,” he said, “poking and prying and asking questions. I thought as much. He’s a scoundrelly vagabond!”
“No, he ain’t,” said Matt bluntly.
“Matt, my girl,” said Mr. Monk, taking no notice of her interruption, “I want you to promise me something.”
“What is it?”
“Not to go near that painter again!” Matt shook her head.
“Shan’t promise,” she said, “’cause I shall go. My likeness ain’t took yet—he takes a time, he does. I’m going to put them things on to-morrow and be took again.”
For a moment the light in his eyes looked dangerous, then he smiled and patted her cheek, at which caress she shrank away. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Matt. “I don’t like to be pulled about, that’s all.”
“You mean you don’t like me?”
“Don’t know. That’s telling.”
“And yet you’ve no cause to hate me, Matt, for I’ve been a good friend to you—and always shall, because I like you, Matt. Do you understand? I like you.”
So anxious did he seem to impress this upon her, that he put his arm around her waist, drew her towards him, and kissed her on the cheek, a ceremony he had never performed before. But Matt seemed by no means to appreciate the honour; as his lips touched her cheeks she shivered; and when he released her she began rubbing at the place as if to wipe the touch away.
If Mr. Monk noticed this action on the part of the girl he deemed it prudent to take no notice of it. He said a few more pleasant things to Matt, and again patted her cheek affectionately, then he left the cottage, taking William Jones with him. Ten minutes later William Jones returned alone.
“Where’s he?” asked Matt.
“Meanin’ Mr. Monk, Matt—he be gone!” said William Jones.
“Gone for good?” demanded Matt, impatiently.
“No; he ain’t, Matt. He’ll be down here to-morrow, he will; and you’d best be at home!”
Matt said nothing this time; she only turned away sullenly and shrugged her shoulders.
“Matt,” said William Jones, presently.
“Well?”
“Mr. Monk seems uncommon fond of you, he do.”
Matt reflected for a moment, then she replied—
“I wonder what he’s fond o’ me for, William Jones?”
“Well, I dunno—‘cause he is, I suppose,” returned William Jones, having no more logical answer at his command.
“‘Tain’t that,” said Matt; “he don’t love me ’cause I’m me, William Jones. There’s somethin’ else, and I should just like to know what that somethin’ is, I should.”
William Jones looked at her, conscious that there was a new development of sagacity in her character, but was utterly at a loss to understand what that new development meant.
When Matt awoke the next morning, the first thing she did was to look around for her Sunday clothes, which on retiring to rest she had carefully placed beside her bed. They were gone, and in their place lay the habiliments she was accustomed to wear on her erratic pilgrimages every day.
Her face grew cloudy, she hunted all round the chamber, but finding nothing that she sought she was compelled to array herself as she best could.
“William Jones,” she said, when she sat with that worthy at a hermit’s breakfast of dry bread and whey, “where’s my Sunday clothes?”
William Jones fidgeted a bit, then he said—
“They’re put where you won’t find ’em. Look ye now, Matt, you’d better be doin’ summat more useful than runnin’ about after a painter chap. I was down on the shore this morning, and I seen heaps o’ wood—you’d best get some of it afore night!”
Matt gave a snort, but said nothing. A few minutes later her benign protector left the cottage, and a little after he had disappeared Matt issued forth; but instead of beating the shore for firewood, as she had been told to do, she ran across the fields to the painter.
She found him already established at his work. The fact was he had been for some time strolling about with his hands in his pockets, and scanning the prospect on every side, for a sight of her. Having got tired of this characteristic occupation, he at length sat down and began to put a few touches to the portrait. Seeing that he was unconscious of her approach, Matt crept up quietly behind him and took a peep at the picture.
Her black eyes dilated with pleasure.
“Oh, ain’t it beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“So you have come at last,” said Brinkley quietly, going on with his painting.
She made no movement and no further sound, so he continued—
“Perhaps now you have come you’ll be good enough to step round that I may continue my work. I am longing to refresh my memory with a sight of your face, Matt!”
“Well, you can’t,” said Matt; “they’re locked up!”
“Eh! what’s locked up—my memory or your face?”
It was clear Matt could not appreciate banter. She saw him smile, and guessed that he was laughing at her, and her face grew black and mutinous. She would have slunk off, but his voice stopped her.
“Come here, Matt,” he said. “Don’t be silly, child; tell me what’s the matter, and—why, what has become of your resplendent raiment—your gorgeous Sunday clothes?”
“Didn’t I tell yer?—they’re locked up.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, William Jones done it ’cause he told him. He don’t want me to come here and be took.”
“Oh! Tell you what it is, Matt, we will have our own way, in spite of them. For the present this picture shall be put aside. If in a day or so you can again don your Sunday raiment, and sit to me again in them—if not, I dare say I shall be able to finish the dress from memory. That portrait I shall give to you. In the mean time, as I want one for myself, I will paint you as you are. Do you approve?”
Matt nodded her head vigorously.
“Very well,” said Brinkley. “Then we will get on.”
He removed from his easel and carefully covered the portrait upon which he had been working. Then he put up a fresh cardboard and sat down, inviting Matt to do the same.
With the disappearance of the Sunday clothes the girl’s stiffness seemed to have disappeared also, and she became again a veritable child of Nature. She looked like a shaggy young pony fresh from a race on the mountain side as she threw herself on the ground in an attitude which was all picturesqueness and beauty. Then with her plump sunburnt hand she carelessly began to pull up the grass, while her black eyes searched alternately the prospect and the painter’s face.
Presently she spoke.
“He says you’re a pryin’ scoundrel,” she said.
Brinkley looked up and smiled.
“Who is he, Matt?”
“Mr. Monk,” she replied, and gave a jerk with her head in the direction of Monkshurst.
“Oh, indeed,” said Brinkley. “It is my amiable equestrian friend, is it? I’m sure I’m much obliged to him. And when, may I ask, did he bore you with his opinion of me?”
“Last night, when he come to see William Jones. He said I wasn’t to be took no more, ‘cause you was a scoundrel poking and prying.”
Brinkley began to whistle, and went on for a while vigorously touching up his work. Then he looked up and regarded the girl curiously.
“Mr. Monk seems to be very much interested in you, Matt?”
The girl nodded her head vigorously; then remembering the odious caress to which Mr. Monk had subjected her, she began to rub her cheek again violently.
“Why is Mr. Monk so interested in you? Do you know?”
“P’raps it’s ’cause he found me when I come ashore?”
“Oh, he found you, did he? Then why doesn’t he keep you?”
“He do, only I live along o’ William Jones.”
Again Brinkley began whistling lightly, and working away vigorously with his brush. Presently the conversation began again.
“Matt, what things did you come ashore in?”
“I dunno!”
“You have never heard whether anything was found with you which might lead to your finding your relations?”
“No, no more has William Jones. He says maybe they’ll find me some day and reward him; but Mr. Monk says they were all drownded, and I ain’t got no friends ’cept him and William Jones.”
“Well, since he found you, I suppose he ought to know; and since you have no relations, Matt, and no claim upon anybody in the world, it was very kind of Mr. Monk to keep you, instead of sending you to the workhouse as he might have done.”
On this point Matt seemed rather sceptical.
“Well,” continued Brinkley, as he went on lightly touching up his work, “perhaps I have done my equestrian friend a wrong. Perhaps his unamiable exterior belies his real nature; perhaps he is good and kind, generous to the poor, willing to help the helpless—like you, for instance.”
“Is it him?” exclaimed Matt, “Monk of Monkshurst! Why, he don’t give nothin’ to nobody. No fear.”
“And yet, according to your own showing, he has helped to support you all these years—you, who have no claim whatever upon him.”
This was an enigma to which Matt had no solution. She said no more, but Brinkley, while he continued his painting, silently ruminated thus:
“It strikes me this puzzle would be worth unravelling if I could only find the key. Query, is the young person the key, if I but knew how to use her? Perhaps, since the amiable Monk evidently dislikes my coming into communication with her. But it would be useless to lay the case before her, since, if she is the key, she is quite unconscious of it herself.”
He threw down his brush, rose and stretched himself, and said—
“Look here, Matt, I’m tired of work. The sun shining on those sand-hills and on the far-off sea is too tempting. I shall go for a walk, and you, if you are in the mood, shall be my guide.”
She evidently was in the mood, for she was on her feet in an instant.
“All right, master,” she said, “I’ll go.”
“Very well.—Tim, bring forth some refreshment. We will refresh the inner man and girl before we start.”
Tim disappeared into the caravan. Presently he re-appeared bearing a small tray, on which was a small flask of brandy, a large jug of milk, some biscuits, and a couple of glasses. This he placed on the camp stool, which his master had just, vacated, and which, when not in use as a seat, served as a table. Brinkley poured out two glasses of milk, then, looking at Matt, he held the little flask on high.
“Brandy, Matt?”
She shook her head.
“Very well, child; I think you are wise. Here, take the milk and drink confusion to your enemies!”
Matt took the glass of milk and drank it down, while Brinkley hastened to dilute and dispose of the other. Then he gave some orders to Tim, and they started off. As they had no particular object in view, they chose the pleasantest route, and clearly the pleasantest lay across the sand-hills. Not because the sand-hills were pleasant in themselves; they were not, especially on a day when the sun was scorching the roads and making the sea like a mill-pond; but because by crossing the sand-hills one came on the other side upon a footpath which led, by various windings, gradually to the top of breezy cliffs.
To the sand-hills, therefore, they wended their way. Having gained them they followed a route which Matt knew full well, and which soon brought them to the narrow footpath beyond. During the walk she was singularly silent, and Brinkley seemed to be busily trying to work out some abstruse problem which had taken possession of his brain.
When they had followed the footpath for some distance, and had gained the greensward on the top of the cliffs, the young man threw himself upon the grass, and invited Matt to do the same. It was very pleasant there, soothing both to the eye and to the mind. The cliff was covered—somewhat sparsely, it is true—with stunted grass, and just below on their right lay the ocean, calm as any mill-pond, but sighing softly as the water kissed the rocks and flowed back again with rhythmic throbs. On their left lay the sand-hills, glittering like dusty gold in the sun rays, while just before and below them was the village.
“Do you see that house standing all by itself, close to shore?” said Matt, pointing to the cottage where she lived; “that belongs to William Jones—and look ye now, there be William Jones on the rocks!”
Looking down, Brinkley beheld a figure moving along the rocks, just where the water touched the edge.
“Very lazy of William Jones,” he said. “Why isn’t he at work?”
“At work?”
“Yes; tilling the fields or fishing. By the way, I forgot to ask you, is he a fisherman?”
“No, he ain’t,” said Matt “He’s a wrecker, he is!”
“A what?” exclaimed Brinkley.
“A wrecker,” continued Matt, as if wrecking was the most natural occupation in the world.
Brinkley looked, at her, imagining that she must be practising some wild joke. He had certainly heard of wreckers, but he had always believed that they were a species of humanity which had belonged to past centuries, and were now as extinct as a mammoth. But the girl evidently meant what she said, and thought there was nothing extraordinary in the statement.
“That sea don’t look ugly, do it?” she continued, pointing at the ocean, “but it is—there’s rocks out there where the ships split on, then they go all to pieces, and the things come ashore.”
“And what becomes of all the things, Matt?”
“Some of ’em’s stole and some of ’em’s took by the coastguards. They do say,” she added, mysteriously, “as there’s lots o’ things—gold and silver—hid among them sand-hills. Before the coastguards come all the folk was wreckers like William Jones, and they used to get what come ashore, and they used to hide it in the sand-hills.”
“Indeed! Then if that is the case, why don’t they take the treasure up, and turn it into money?”
“Why? ’Cause they can’t; them sandhills is allus changing and shifting about, they are; though they know well enough the things is there, there’s no findin’ of ’em!”
“I always thought William Jones was poor?”
“So he is, he says!” replied Matt, “’cause though he be allus foraging, he don’t find much now on account o’ them coastguard chaps.”
After they had rested themselves, they went a little further up the cliff, then they followed a narrow winding path, which brought them to the shore below. Here Matt, who seemed to be pretty well grounded in the history of the place, pointed him out the wonders of the coast.
She showed him the caves, which tradition said had been formerly used as wreckers’ haunts and treasure stores, but which were now washed by the sea, and covered with slimy weeds; then she brought him to a promontory where they told her she herself had been found. This spot Brinkley examined curiously, then he looked at the girl.
“I suppose you had clothes on when you came ashore, didn’t you, Matt?”
“Why, of course, I had. William Jones has got ’em!”
“Has he? Where?”
“In his cave, I expect.”
“His cave! Where is that?” asked Brinkley, becoming very much interested.
“Dunno,” returned Matt; “perhaps it’s somewhere hereabout. I’ve seen William Jones come about here, I have, but I never could track him!”
Matt’s information on the subject was so vague that it seemed useless to institute a search; so, after a regretful look at the rocks, Brinkley proposed that they should saunter back along the shore.
“By the way,” said he, “I want you to introduce me to William Jones.”
“To William Jones?”
“Yes. Strange as the fancy may seem to you, I should like for once in my life to stand face to face with a real live wrecker.”
They made their way back along the coast, until they reached William Jones’s cottage. Here they paused, principally for Brinkley to take a glance at the quaint dwelling, then they crossed the threshold. What sort of a place he had got into, it was utterly impossible for Brinkley to tell; it was so dark, he could see nothing. Having crossed the threshold, therefore, he paused; but Matt went fearlessly forward, struck a light, and ignited the rushlight on the table.
“William Jones,” said she, “here be the painter!”
By the light of the flickering rushlight Brinkley now looked about him. At a glance he noted some of the details of the queer little room, then his eye fell upon the occupants, whom, from Matt’s description, he recognized as William Jones and the grizzly author of his being.
The old man, who Brinkley perforce admitted certainly bore some resemblance to the Rembrandtish head which Matt had recognized, sat dozing fitfully by the hearth, while his son was busily employed in mending an old lantern.
Upon the entrance of Brinkley, the lantern was quickly thrown aside, and William Jones, assuming a most obsequious manner, hastened to give a welcome to the stranger. Brinkley was amused. He accepted William Jones’s offer of a seat, then he lit up his briar-root pipe, and while smoking lazily, he put a few questions to his host. But if he expected to gain information of any kind he was soon undeceived. William Jones was no fool. Combined with excessive avarice, he possessed all the cunning of the fox, and the moment he saw that the stranger was pumping him, he was on his guard.
Presently, however, his curiosity gained the day. Categorically, in his turn, he began to question Brinkley about his doings.
“I suppose now, master,” said he, “you travel about a deal i’ that cart o’ your’n?”
Brinkley explained that the “cart” in question had been in his possession only a few months.
“But I travelled a good deal before I got it,” he explained. “This time last year I was in Ireland.”
“In Ireland, master?”
“Yes, on the west coast; do you know it?”
William Jones shook his head.
“There be plenty wreck there, ain’t there?” said he suddenly.
“Wreck?” repeated Brinkley.
“Yes, I’ve heard tell o’ wonderful storms and big ships breaking up. Look ye, now, they do tell wonderful stories; and I wonder sometimes if all they says be true.”
Brinkley looked at his host for a minute or so in silent wonder, for the little man was transformed. Instead of gazing about him with the stupid expression which up till now his face had worn, his face expressed all the keenness of a foxhound well on the scent. There was also another curious thing which the young man noticed, that the word “wreck” seemed to act like magic on the other member of the Jones’ household. At the first mention of it the old man started from his sleep; and he now sat staring wildly before him, evidently imagining he was standing on a headland, gazing out to sea.
“Wreck!” he murmured; “ay, there it be, driftin’ in wi’ the wind and the tide, William; driftin’ in wi’ the tide.”
“Shut up, old man,” said William, giving his father a nudge; then turning again to Brinkley, he said, “Be them tales true, master?”
“Eh?—Oh yes; perfectly true,” said Brinkley, being in a lively humour, and determined to give his host a treat.
The expression in the eyes of William Jones became even more greedy.
“P’raps,” he said, “you’ve seen some of them wrecks.”
“Dear me, yes,” answered Brinkley, determined to give the reins to his imagination. “I’ve seen any number of them. Huge ships broken up like match-boxes, and every soul on board them drowned; then afterwards——”
“Ah yes, master,” said William Jones eagerly as the other paused; “arter——”
“Well, afterwards, my friend, I’ve seen treasures come ashore that would have made you and me, and a dozen others such, men for life.”
“Dear, dear! and what became of it, master—tell me that?”
“What became of it?” repeated Brinkley, whose imagination was beginning to give way; “why, it was appropriated, of course, by the population.”
“And didn’t you take your share, master?”
“I?” repeated Brinkley, who was getting muddled; “well, firstly, because I didn’t wish to—I have a superstitious horror of wearing dead men’s things; and secondly, because I could not have done so had I wished. The people are clannish; they wanted it all for themselves, and would have killed any interfering stranger.”
“I suppose, master, there be no coastguard chaps there?” said William Jones.
“Oh dear, no! No coastguards.”
“Ah!” sighed the old man, coming out of his trance. “It warn’t so long ago when there warn’t no coastguard chaps here neither. Then times was better for honest men. On a dark night ’twas easy to put a light on the headland, and sometimes we got a prize or two that way, didn’t we, William dear; but now——”
“You shut up!” roared William, giving his parent a very forcible dig in the ribs. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you don’t.—The old ’un is a bit queer in the head, master,” he explained; “and he’s allus a dreamin’, he is. There ain’t no prizes here, the Lord knows; it’s a’most as much as we can do to git a bit o’ bread. Matt knows that; don’t ee’, Matt?”
But whatever Matt knew she evidently meant to keep to herself, for she gave no reply. Presently, after a little more general conversation, Brinkley rose to go. He offered a two-shilling piece to William Jones; and somewhat to his amazement, that worthy accepted it gratefully.
“Good-bye, Matt,” said Brinkley. But in a trice Matt was beside him.
“I’m going to show you the way,” she explained as she went out with him into the air.
“Whew!” said Brinkley when they were fairly clear of the cabin; “the open air is better than that den; but then William Jones is very poor, isn’t he, Matt?”
“He says he is.”
“But don’t you believe it?”
“P’raps I do, and p’raps I don’t; it don’t matter to you, does it?”
“Not the least in the world.”
They went on for a while in silence; then Matt, who had been furtively watching his face all the while, spoke again.
“You ain’t angry, are you, master?” she asked.
“I angry?—what for?”
“‘Cause I said that just now.”
“Dear me, no; whatever you might say, Matt, wouldn’t offend me.”
If he expected to please her by this he was mistaken.
“That’s ’cause you don’t care. Well, I don’t care neither, if you don’t.”
She ran a little ahead of him, and continued to precede him until she gained the last sand-hill, and caught a glimpse of the caravan. Then she paused.
“You don’t want me to go no further, do you?”
“No.”
“All right—good-bye.”
She gave a bound, like a young deer, and prepared to start for a swift run back, but the young man called her.
“Matt, come here.”
She came up to him. He put his arm about her shoulders, bent over her upturned face, and kissed her. In her impulsive way. Matt returned the kiss ardently, then to his amazement, she gave one strange look into his eyes—blushed violently, and hung her head.
“Come, give me another, Matt,” he said.
But Matt would not comply. With one jerk she freed herself from him; then, swift as lightning, she ran back across the hills towards the sea.