About this time Matt noticed a curious change come over her artist friend. He was more thoughtful, and consequently less entertaining. Often when she appeared and began chatting to him about affairs in which she thought he might take some interest, she had the mortification not merely of eliciting no reply, but of finding that he had not heard a word of her conversation.
Now this style of proceeding would certainly have caused her some annoyance, but for one compensating fact, which put the balance entirely on the other side. It was evident that, despite the change, Brinkley’s interest in Matt was not lessening, nay, it rather seemed to be on the increase, and this fact Matt, very woman as she was, was quick to perceive.
Very often, on looking suddenly at him, she found his eyes fixed wonderingly and sympathetically upon her. She asked him on one occasion what he was thinking about.
“You, Matt,” he answered promptly. “I was trying to imagine,” he continued, seeing her blush and hang her head, “how you would look in silks and velvets; got up, in fact, like a grand demoiselle. What would you say, now, if a good fairy were to find you out some day, and were to offer to change you from what you are to a fine young lady—would you say Yes?”
Matt reflected for a moment, then she followed her feminine instinct, and nodded her head vigorously.
“Ah!—by the way, Matt, can you read?”
“Print, not writing.”
“And write?”
“Just a bit.”
“Who taught you? William Jones?”
“No, that he didn’t. I learned off Tim Pensera down village. William Jones, he can’t read and he can’t write; no more can William Jones’s father.”
“This last piece of information set the young man thinking so deeply that the rest of the interview became rather dull for Matt. When she rose to go, however, he came out of his abstraction, and asked her if she would return on the following day.
“I don’t know—p’raps!” she said.
“Ah,” returned the young man, assuming his flippant manner, “you find me tedious company, I fear. The fact is, I am generally affected in this manner in the present state of the moon. But come to-morrow, Matt. Your presence does me good.” However, the next day passed, and the next again, and there was no sign of Matt. He began to think that the child had taken offence, and that he would have to seek her in her own home, when her opportune appearance prevented the journey. He was taking his breakfast one morning inside the caravan, when he suddenly became conscious that Matt was standing outside watching him.
“Oh, you are there, are you?” he said coolly. “Come in and have some breakfast, Matt.”
He rose negligently, went to the door, and held forth his hand; Matt took it, gave one spring, and landed inside the vehicle.
“Tim, another knife and fork for the young lady—some more eggs and milk; in fact, anything you’ve got!” said Brinkley, as he placed a seat for Matt at the little table.
Tim gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. This “bold colleen,” as he called her, was becoming too much for him; but he perforce obeyed his master’s commands. Matt sat down and ate with an appetite; Brinkley played negligently with his knife, and watched her.
“It is two days since you were here, Matt,” said he. “I was seriously thinking of coming to look for you. Why wouldn’t you come before?”
“’Twasn’t that!” said Matt. “I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t? Why?”
“Why, he wouldn’t let me, William Jones. He says he’ll smash me if I come here and talk to you.”
As Matt spoke, her bosom heaved and her eyes flashed fire.
“He ain’t at home to-day,” she said, in answer to the young man’s query concerning the ex-wrecker; “he’s gone up to market town, and won’t be back before night.”
As Brinkley looked at her, a sudden thought seemed to strike him.
“Matt,” he said, “you and I will go wreck-hunting this afternoon; that is, if you’ve no objection.”
She certainly had none: wherever he went she seemed willing to follow. In a very little while the two had started off. It was Brinkley who led this time, Matt walking along beside him like a confiding child.
“By the way, Matt,” he said presently, “you told me once of treasures being hidden amongst the sand-hills. Did anybody ever find any?”
“Not that I know on.”
“William Jones, for instance?”
“No. Leastways, I don’t know.”
“Well, what would you say, Matt, if I told you that I had found one?”
“If you?”
“Yes. I wonder if you can keep a secret? Yes, on reflection I think you can. Now, before we go any further, Matt, first you place your hand in mine, and promise never to mention until I give you permission what I am about to confide in you.”
Matt’s curiosity was aroused.
“All right,” she replied eagerly, “I shan’t tell.”
“Very good,” replied Brinkley. “We will now proceed.”
They passed on amongst the sand-hills, and came to the entrance of the cave. Brinkley removed the stones and sand from the hole, and entered. Breathless with curiosity, Matt followed. They reached the bottom. Brinkley struck a light, and pointed out to her all the wonderful treasures which the cave contained. It was such a surprise to the girl that for a time she could do nothing but stare and stare in speechless wonder. Whistling gaily, Brinkley turned about the casks of rum and brandy, and thrust his hands into the bags, and let the gleaming gold slip through his fingers.
Matt’s amazement turned into awe.
“Don’t,” she said, in a fearful whisper; “it belongs to the fairies.”
Brinkley laughed.
“It belongs to a very substantial fairy, Matt; but I don’t think that to-day I will mention that fairy’s name. Did you ever see so much, money in all your life before, Matt?”
She shook her head, but her eyes were still fixed upon the gold.
“I see,” observed Brinkley flippantly, “the sight of that gold fascinates you. Well, so it did me at first; but you see what use does. I can regard it now with comparative calmness. However, I have a particular wish to accustom you to the sight of wealth; therefore I shall bring you here and show you this now and again. Come, Matt, tell me what you would do if you were very rich—if all this flotsam and jetsam, in fact, belonged to you.”
Without the slightest hesitation Matt replied—
“I should give it to you—leastways, half of it.”
“Ah! the reply is characteristic, and clearly shows you are not at present fitted to become the possessor of riches. But I shall bring you to the proper state of mind in time, no doubt. The next time I ask you a similar question you will propose to give me a third, the next an eighth, and so on, until you will finally come to a proper state of mind, and decline to give me any at all. And now that I have made you the sharer of my secret, we will go.”
They left the cave once more, and made their way back across the sand-hills, Brinkley pausing to obliterate their footprints as they went. When they had proceeded some distance he paused, and took the girl’s hand.
“Good-bye, Matt,” said he. “If it wasn’t for that promised thrashing, I should certainly see you home.”
“Then do,” returned Matt. “I don’t care if he does smash me!”
“Probably not; but I do. It would be an episode in your career which it would not be pleasant to reflect upon—therefore, goodbye, Matt, and—and God bless you, my girl!”
He gave her a fatherly salute upon the forehead; a bright flush overspread her cheek as she bounded away. Brinkley watched her until she was out of sight, then he turned, and strolled quietly on in the direction of the caravan.
“It’s a strange game,” he said, “and requires careful playing. I wonder what my next move ought to be?”
He thought very deeply, but when he reached the caravan he found he had come to no definite conclusion as to his plans. He therefore partook cheerfully of the repast which Tim had prepared for him; and after he had smoked a couple of pipes in the open air, he retired to rest.
The next morning he began pondering again.
“I have got my trump card,” he said to himself, “but how to play up to it? I have a splendid hand, but it will want skilful playing if I am to win the game. One false move would do for me, for my opponents are crafty as foxes, and they are two against one. What is my right move, I wonder? I wish some good fairy would guide me!”
He took out his pipe, which was his usual consoler, and smoked while he took a few turns on the green sward outside the caravan.
Suddenly an idea struck him.
“I think I’ll pay a domiciliary visit to Mr. Monk,” he said. “I can meet him now on pretty equal terms. If I hint a few things to him, the amiable gentleman may think of becoming just.”
He called up Tim, and sent him on some trivial errand down to the village. As soon as he was well out of the way, Brinkley entered the caravan, produced some papers from the inner pocket of his coat, and locked them up securely in his trunk.
“So far so good,” he said. “My amiable friend may not be in an amiable mood, and I don’t wish him to get any advantage of me!”
He did not even take with him the key of the box, but having attached to it a small piece of paper, on which were some written instructions, he hid it in the caravan, and started off upon his journey.
It was a dark, gloomy morning, giving every promise of coming storms. As he passed through the wood which surrounded Monkshurst House, the wind whistled softly among the trees, making a moan like the sound of human voices.
“A gloomy place,” said Brinkley; “a fit residence for such as he. Any dark deed might be committed here, and who would know?”
The path which he followed was a neglected carriage-drive, strewn with stones, overgrown with weeds, and bordered on either side by the thick trees of the forest. Presently the trees parted, and he came in view of the house.
A large gloomy-looking building, as neglected as the woodland in the centre of which it stood. It seemed as if only part of it was inhabited, and the large garden at its back was unprotected by any wall, and full of overgrown fruit trees.
The door was opened by a grim elderly woman. He inquired for Mr. Monk, and was informed that he was at home. The next minute he was standing in a lonely library, where the owner of the house was busy writing. Monk rose, and the two stood face to face.
It is not my purpose to describe the interview which took place between my hero and Mr. Monk. Suffice it to say that when the young man again emerged from the gloomy shadows of the dwelling there was a curious smile upon his face, while Mr. Monk, who had followed him to the door, and watched his retreating figure, wore a horrible expression of hatred and fear.
No sooner had he disappeared than Monk left the house also, and, following a footpath, through the woods, made straight for William Jones’s cottage. Entering unceremoniously, he found that worthy seated beside the hearth. Without a word he rushed upon him, seized him by the throat, and began pummelling his head upon the wall.
The attack was so sudden that for several minutes William Jones offered no resistance whatever. Indeed, so passive was he, and so violent was the rage of his opponent, that there was every prospect of his head being beaten to a jelly. Presently, however; Monk’s fury abating, his unfortunate victim was allowed to pick himself up. He sat and stared before him, while Monk, looking like the Evil One himself, glared savagely in his face.
“You villain! You accursed, treacherous scoundrel!” he said. “Tell me what you’ve done, or I’ll kill you!”
But William Jones was unconscious of having done anything, and he said as much, whereupon Monk’s fury seemed about to rise again.
“Mr. Monk,” cried William Jones, in terror, “look ye now, tell me what’s the matter?”
“I mean you to tell me what you have been hiding from me all these years. Something came ashore with that child—something that might lead to her identity, and you have kept it, thinking to realize money upon it, or to have me in your power. What means it? Speak, or I’ll strangle you!” But William Jones was evidently unable to speak, being perfectly paralyzed with fear. Monk stretched forth his hands to seize him again, when the old man, who had been a horrified spectator of all this, suddenly broke in with—
“Look ye, now, I know there was summat. It were a leetle book, stuffed in the front of her frock!”
“A book!” returned Monk, eagerly; “and what did you do with it? Tell me that, you old fool! Did you burn it?”
“Burn it?” exclaimed the other. “No, mister; we don’t burn nothin’, William and me. You know where you put it, William dear, in the old place.”
“Then curse you for an avaricious old devil,” thundered Monk. “The book has been stolen—do you hear!—stolen by that young painter!”
He could say no more, the effect of his words upon William Jones was electrical. He gave one wild shriek, and began tearing his hair. It now became his turn to moan and rave, and for some time nothing coherent could be got from him.
At length, however, Monk gathered that there was some secret hiding-place which Brinkley had discovered.
“I thought his poking and prying meant summat,” moaned William Jones. “I fancied, too, I seen marks i’ the sand, but I never could find no one near, and I thought they was my own marks. Oh, what will come to me! I’m ruined!”
“Curse your folly!” exclaimed Monk, “you’ve brought it all on yourself by your own greed, and you don’t deserve I should help you; but I will help you! Listen, then! It is clear that this young man has possessed himself somehow of your secret and mine. But from what he said to me, I fancy he has not as yet divulged it to a single soul. He is the only human being we have to fear. We must cease to fear him. Do you understand?”
No, William Jones did not understand; so in order to make his meaning clear, Mr. Monk drew him out from the cottage, and whispered something in his ear. William Jones turned as white as death, and began to tremble all over.
“I couldn’t do it, sir,” he moaned. “Look ye now—I couldn’t do it!”
Monk stamped his foot impatiently; then he turned to his frightened victim.
“Listen to me, William Jones. You ought to know by this time that I have both the power and determination to effect my ends. Continue to oppose me, and play the fool, and all that power shall be used against you. Do you hear? I will ruin, you! I will hand you over to the authorities as a thief—I will have you tried for concealing the papers which might have proved the identity of the child found washed ashore fifteen years ago! Do you hear?”
Mr. Monk evidently knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, for after a little more conversation William Jones, cowering like a frightened child, promised implicit obedience.
“Now, then,” said Monk, when he had brought matters to a satisfactory termination, “you will show me this hiding-place of yours.”
To this William Jones at first objected, but Monk was firm.
“Who knows,” said he, “but there may be other things having reference to the child? I mean to see for myself. Now, William Jones.”
So William Jones, seeing that resistance would be useless, promised to conduct his friend to the cave; and after a good deal of hesitation and of continued show of unwillingness on William Jones’s part, the two men started off.
When they drew near to the cave, William Jones gave a cry, and pointed to the sand. Looking down, Monk clearly saw footprints. They followed them, and found that they led right to the mouth of the cave.
“It’s standing open!” cried William Jones, as he pointed down with trembling finger.
“Follow me!” said Monk, crawling down into the hole.
Jones followed in terror.
As he reached the path below, he heard a sharp cry, and looking down saw, by the dim light of a candle stuck in the wall, Brinkley struggling helplessly in the powerful grip of Monk. He had been sprung upon from behind, and was helpless through a sort of garotte.
Horrified and trembling, William Jones was rooted to his place.
Suddenly he saw the young man fall backward lifeless, and, with one last gasp, lie perfectly still. Monk stooped over him, and looked into his face.
“Oh, Mr. Monk!” cried William, “is he—is he——”
“He is dead,” was the reply. “So much the better.”
As he spoke, he bent down and searched the young man’s pockets. His brow blackened, for he did not find what he sought. Then he took the light from the wall, and held it close to Brinkley’s eyes.
Satisfied that he did not breathe, he climbed up the path and rejoined his trembling companion. They passed out of the place, hurriedly replaced the trap-door, and piled on sand and stones.
“There!” said Monk, with a wild smile on his deadly pale face. “He won’t trouble either of us again. Come, come!”
And he strode hastily away, followed by William Jones, leaving the young man of the caravan in the subterranean tomb.
The two men walked together through the darkness as far as the door of William Jones’s hut; then they parted. Mr. Monk struck across the sand-hills towards his own home, while Jones entered the doorway of his cabin.
He would fain have found that cabin empty, for the memory of that last scene in the cave was still upon him, and made him as nervous as a child. But the old man was there, and wide-awake, and evidently pleased at his son’s return.
“Where have you been, William dear?” said he. The question was innocent enough in itself, but it was full of hidden meaning for William Jones.
“Where have I been?” he repeated; “at work to be sure!”
The tone of his reply startled the old man. He looked up, and saw to his amazement that William was as white as a ghost, and trembling violently.
“What’s the matter, William, dear?” he asked eagerly. “Have ye seen a wreck, my son?”
“No, I ain’t!” responded his son violently; “and look ye now, old ’un, you jest be quiet, and let me alone, that’s all!”
The old man, knowing his son’s temper, did as he was told, and William began to potter aimlessly about the room. He was certainly trembling very much, and was almost overcome with a nervousness for which he himself could not account. For he was no coward. To get possession of a prize on the high seas he would have faced a storm which might well make brave men tremble, not to mention that he knew that he had on more than one occasion humanely hastened the end of shipwrecked sailors, whom he had found and pillaged on the shore. After these acts he had been able to sleep the sleep of virtue without being haunted by dead men’s eyes. But now the case was different. He had not to deal with a victim without friends, a man whose body, described as that of a “shipwrecked mariner,” could be buried and forgotten without any more ado. In all probability there would this time be a hue and cry, and William Jones trembled lest his share in the ghastly business might ultimately be discovered.
True, he was not actually the culprit, and so, even at the worst, he might escape the gallows—but to a man of his sensitive and affectionate nature the thought of transportation was not pleasant. It was this that made him nervous—this that made him start and tremble at every sound.
Presently a thought struck him.
“Where’s Matt?” he asked.
“Don’t know, William, dear; she ain’t been here for hours and hours. Maybe she’s on the shore.”
“Maybe she is. I’ll go and have a look,” returned William.
It must not be supposed for a moment that William Jones had become afflicted with a sudden and tender interest in Matt—he merely wanted to get quit of the cabin, that was all, and he saw in this a reasonable excuse for walking out alone. He accordingly made his escape, and went wandering off along the shore.
It was ten o’clock when he returned; he was still pale, and drenched to the skin. The old man was dozing beside the fire, and alone.
“Where’s Matt?” asked William again.
“Ain’t you seen her, William, dear? Well, she ain’t here.”
William Jones did look a little uneasy this time, and it is but due to him to confess that his uneasiness was caused by Matt’s prolonged absence. Erratic as she was in her movements, she had not been accustomed to staying out so late, especially on a night when the rain was pouring, and not a glimmer of star or moon was to be seen.
“Wonder what she’s doin’ of?” said William; “suppose I’d best wait up for her.. Here, old man, you go to bed, d’ye: hear—you ain’t wanted anyhow.”
The old man accordingly went to bed, and William sat up to await Matt’s return. He sat beside the hearth, looked into the smouldering fire, and listened to the rain as it poured down steadily upon the roof. Occasionally he got up, and went to the door; he could see nothing, but he heard the patter of the falling rain, and the low dreary moan of the troubled sea.
Hour after hour passed, and Matt did not come. William Jones began to doze by the fire—then he sank into a heavy sleep.
He awoke with a start, and found that it was broad daylight. The fire was out, the rain had ceased to fall, and the morning sun was creeping in at the windows. He looked round, and saw that he was still alone. He went into Matt’s room—it was empty. She had not returned.
He was now filled with vague uneasiness. He made up a bit of fire, and was about to issue forth again in search of the truant, when all further trouble was saved him—the door opened, and Matt herself appeared.
She seemed almost as much disturbed as William Jones himself. Her face was very pale, her hair wild, her dress in great disorder. She started on seeing him; then, assuming rather a devil-may-care look, she lounged in.
“You’re up early, William Jones,” she said.
“Yes, I am up early,” he replied gruffly; “’cause why?—’cause I ain’t been to bed. And where have you been—jest you tell me that.”
“Why,—I’ve been out, of course!” returned the girl defiantly.
“That won’t do, Matt,” returned William Jones. “Come, you’ll jest tell me where you’ve been. You ain’t been out all night for nothing.”
The girl gave him a look half of defiance, half of curiosity; then she threw herself down, rather than sat, upon a chair.
“I’m tired, I am,” she said; “and hungry, and cold!”
“Will you tell me where you’ve been, Matt?” cried William Jones, trembling with suspicious alarm.
“‘Course I will, if you keep quiet,” said the girl in answer. “There ain’t much to tell neither. I were away along to Pencroes when the heavy rain came on, then I lay down behind a haystack and fell asleep, and when I woke up it was daylight, and I came home.”
William Jones looked at her steadfastly and long; then, as if satisfied, he turned away. About an hour later he left the hut and walked along the shore, straining his eyes seaward. But instead of looking steadfastly at one spot, as his custom was, he paused now and again to gaze uneasily about him. At every sound he started and turned pale. In truth, he was becoming a veritable coward—afraid almost of the sound of his own footsteps on the sands.
Several days passed away, during which William Jones showed a strange and significant affection for his own fireside. He went out a little in the sunlight; but directly night came he locked and barricaded the door as if against thieves, and declined, on any inducement, to cross the threshold. Even had a three-decker gone ashore in the neighbourhood, he would have thought twice before issuing forth into the dreaded darkness.
For William Jones was genuinely afraid; his hereditary calm of mind was shaken, not so much with horror at a murderous deed, as with consternation that his lifelong secret had been discovered by one man, and might, sooner or later, be discovered by others. He did not put implicit faith even in Monk; it was his nature to trust nobody where money was concerned.
As to returning to the cave until he had quite recovered his equanimity, that was out of the question. Even by daylight he avoided the spot with a holy horror. Only in his dreams, which were dark and troubled, did he visit it,—to see the face of the murdered man in the darkness, and the hand of the murdered man pointing at him with cold, decaying finger.
The day after the murder he had been greatly unsettled by a visit from Tim Lenney, who demanded news of his master, and said that he had not returned to the caravan all night. Tim seemed greatly troubled, but gave vent to no very violent ebullitions of grief. When he was gone Matt sat by the fireside, and looked long and keenly at William Jones.
“What are you staring at?” cried he, fidgeting uneasily under her gaze.
“Nowt,” said Matt; “I were only wondering——”
“Then don’t go wondering,” exclaimed the good man rather inconsistently. “You mind your own business, and don’t be a fool!”
And he turned testily and gazed at the fire. But Matt, whose eyes were full of a curious light, was not to be abashed.
“Ain’t you well, William Jones?” she asked.
“I’m well enough,—I am.”
“It’s queer, ain’t it, that the painter chap never come home?”
“How should I know?” growled William. “Maybe he’s gone back to where he come from.”
“Or maybe he’s drownded? Or maybe summat else has happened to him?” suggested Matt.
“Never you mind him, my gal. He’s all right, never fear. And if he ain’t, it’s no affair o’ yours, or mine neither. You go along out and play.”
Matt went out as directed, and it was some hours before she returned. She found her guardian seated in his old place by the fire, looking at vacancy. He started violently as she entered, and made a clutch at the rude piece of ship’s iron which served as a poker.
“Be it you, Matt? Lor’, how you startled me I I were—I were—taking a doze.”
“I’ve been up yonder,” said Matt.
“Up wheer?”
“Up to the painter chap’s cart. He ain’t come back; and the man’s searchin’ for him all up and down the place.”
Fortunately it was very dark, so that she could not see the expression of her hearer’s face. She walked to the fireplace, and, taking a box of lucifers from a ledge, began to procure a light, with the view of igniting the rushlight fixed to the table. But in a moment “William blew out the match, and snatched the box from her.
“What are you doin’ of?” he cried. “Wasting the matches, as if they cost nowt. You’ll come to the workus, afore you’re done.”
The days passed, and there was no news of the absent man. Every day Matt went up to the caravan to make inquiries. At last, one afternoon, she returned looking greatly troubled; her eyes were red, too, as if she had been crying.
“What’s the matter now?” demanded William, who had left his usual seat and was standing at the door.
“Nowt,” said Matt, wiping her eyelids with the back of her hand.
“Don’t you tell no lies. You’ve heerd summat? Stop! What’s that theer under your arm?”
All at once he had perceived that she carried a large roll of something wrapped in brown paper. He took it from her, and opened it nervously. It was the crayon portrait of herself executed by the defunct artist.
“Who gave you this here?” cried William Jones, trembling more than ever.
“Tim.”
“Who’s he?”
“Him as come looking arter his master. The painter chap ain’t found; and now Tim’s goin’ away in the cart to tell his friends. And he give me this—my pictur’; he give me it to keep. His master said I were to have it; and I mean to keep it now he’s dead!”
William Jones handed back the picture, and seemed relieved, indeed, when it was out of his hands.
“Dead?” he muttered, not meeting Matt’s eyes, but looking right out to sea. “Who told you he were dead?”
Matt did not reply, but gazed at William so long and so significantly, that the good man, conscious of her scrutiny, turned and plunged into the darkness of his dwelling.
An hour later a loud voice summoned him forth. He went to the door, and there was Monk of Monkshurst. It was the first time they had met since they parted on the night of the murder. Monk was dressed in a dark summer suit, and looked unusually spick and span.
“Where’s the girl?” he cried, after a whispered colloquy of some minutes. “Matt, where are you?”
In answer to the call Matt appeared at the door. No sooner did she perceive Monk than she trembled violently, and went very pale.
“Come here, Matt,” he said with an insinuating smile. “See! I’ve brought something for you—something pretty for you to wear.”
As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small gold ring, set with turquoise stones. But Matt still trembled, and shrank away.
“I don’t want it!—I sha’n’t wear it,” she cried.
“Nonsense, Matt!” said Monk. “Why, it’s a ring fit for a lady. Come, let me put it on your finger.”
So great seemed her agitation, so deep her dread of him, that she could not stir; so that when he approached, laughing, and caught her round the waist, he slipped the ring on her finger before she could resist. But it only remained there a moment. With a quick, sharp cry, she tore herself free, and, taking the ring off, threw it right away from her upon the sand. Then, with a wild gesture of fear and loathing, she rushed into the cottage.
William Jones walked over and picked up the ring, while Monk stood scowling darkly after the fugitive.
“What the devil ails the girl?” cried the latter, with a fierce oath, pocketing the present.
“I dunno. She’s never been the same since—since the painter chap went missing. I’m afeerd he turned the gal’s head.”
“He’ll turn no more heads,” muttered Monk under his breath; then added aloud and with decision, “There must be an end to this. She must be married to me at once.”
“Do you mean it, master? When you spoke on it fust I thought you was joking.”
“Then you were a fool for your pains. She’s old enough, and bold enough, and vixenish enough; but I’ll tame her. I tell you there must be no more delay. My mind’s made up, and I’ll wait no longer.” Sinking their voices they continued to talk together for some time. Now Matt was crouching close to the threshold, and had heard every word of the above conversation, and much that followed it. When Monk walked away and disappeared, leaving William Jones ruminant at the broken gate, she suddenly reappeared.
Curiously enough all her excitement had departed. Instead of weeping or protesting, she looked at William Jones—and laughed.
Monk had left his horse at the coastguard station. Remounting, he rode rapidly away through the sand-hills in the direction of the lake. As he approached the spot of the old encampment, he saw that the caravan had gone.
He rode on thoughtfully till he gained the highway, when he put his horse into a rapid trot. Just before he gained the gate and avenue near to which he had first encountered Brinkley, he saw the caravan before him on the dusty road.
He hesitated for a moment; then hurried rapidly forward, and, arriving close to the vehicle, saw the Irishman’s head looking round at him from the driver’s seat. He beckoned, and Tim pulled up.
“Has your master returned? I am informed that he has been missing for some days.”
Tim shook his head very dolefully.
“No, sor I sorra sight have I seen of him for three days and three nights. I’m going back wid the baste and the house, to tell his friends the bad news. Maybe it’s making fun of me he is, and I’ll find him somewhere on the road.”
“I hope you will,” said Monk sympathetically. “I think—hum—it is quite possible he has, as you suggest, wandered homeward. Good-day to you.”
So saying, Monk turned off by the gate which they had just reached, and rode away up the avenue.
Tim looked after him till he disappeared. Then the same curious change came over him which had come over Matt after she had been listening to the colloquy between Monk and William Jones.
He laughed!
A week passed away. The shadow of the caravan no longer fell on the green meadow by the lake, and the straggling population of Aberglyn, unsuspicious of foul play, had already forgotten both the caravan and the owner.
And if facts were to be taken into consideration in estimating the extent of her memory, Matt too had forgotten. It was common talk now, that she, the grammarless castaway, the neglected protégée of William Jones, was to be married to the master of the great house! Nay, the very day was fixed; and that very day was only two sunrises distant; and Monk of Monkshurst had in his pocket a special license, which he had procured, at an expenditure of five pounds, from London.
Doubtless, in any other more populous locality the affair would have occasioned no little scandal, and many ominous shakings of the head; but the inhabitants were few and far between, and had little or no time for idle gossiping. The coastguardsmen and their wives were the only individuals who exhibited any interest, and even their excitement was faint and evanescent, like the movements of a fish in a shallow and unwholesome pool.
But the really extraordinary part of the whole affair was the conduct of Matt herself. Apparently quite cured of her former repugnance to a union with Monk, she made no objection whatever to the performance of the ceremony, and laughed merrily when she was informed that the day was fixed. Monk, in his grim, taciturn way, was jubilant. He came to and fro constantly, and assumed the manners of a lover. Had he been less bent on one particular object two things might have struck him as curious:—(1) That Matt, though she had consented to marry him, steadfastly refused to wear his ring, or accept any other presents; and (2) that she still shrunk, with persistent and ill-disguised dislike, from his caresses.
It was now late in the month of August, and the weather was broken by troublous winds and a fretful moon. For several weeks William Jones, in his mortal terror, had refrained from visiting the cave; he had never set his foot therein, indeed, since the night of the assassination. At last he could bear the suspense no longer. Suppose some one else had discovered his treasure, and robbed him? Suppose some subterranean change had obliterated the landmarks or submerged the cavern! Suppose a thousand dreadful things! Tired of miserable supposition, William determined, despite his terror, to make sure.
So late one windy and rainy night he stole forth with his unlit lantern, and fought his way in the teeth of half a gale to the familiar place, which he found, however, with some little difficulty. He was neither superstitious nor imaginative, but throughout the journey he was a prey to nameless terrors. Every gust of wind went through his heart like a knife; every sound of wind or sea made that same heart stop and listen. Only supreme greed and miserly anxiety led him on. But at last he gained the cave, within which there was a sound as of clashing legions, clarions shrieking, drums beating, all the storm and stress of the awful waters clashing on the cliffs without, and boiling with unusual screams through the black slit between the cave and the Devil’s Cauldron.
Trembling, with perspiration standing in great beads on his face, he searched the cave for the corpse of the murdered man, expecting to find it well advanced in decomposition. Strange to say, however, it had disappeared.
William Jones was at once relieved and alarmed; relieved because he was spared a horrible experience; alarmed because he could not account for the disappearance.
A little reflection, however, suggested that one of those tidal waves so common on the coast might have arisen well up into the cavern, washed away the body from its place on the shingle, and carried it away in the direction of the Cauldron.
“In which case,” he reflected, “them coastguard chaps would find it some day among the rocks or on the shore, and think it had been drowned in the way of natur’.”
Satisfied that everything else was undisturbed, he retired as hastily as possible, sealed up the entrance to the cavern, and ran hastily home.
The morning of the marriage came—a fine sunny morning. An open dog-cart belonging to Monk, and driven by one of his servants, stood at William Jones’s door, and close to it a light country cart, borrowed by William Jones himself from a neighbouring farmer. The population, consisting of an aged coastguardsman, two coastguardsmen’s wives, and half-a-dozen dejected children, crowded in front of the cottage.
The bridegroom, attired in decent black, with a flower in his button-hole, stood waiting impatiently in the garden. Despite the festive occasion, he had a gloomy and hangdog appearance. Presently there emerged from the door William Jones, attired in a drowned seaman’s suit several sizes too large for him, and wearing a chimney-pot hat and a white rosette. Leaning on his arm was Matt, dressed in a dress of blue silk, neatly made for her by one of the coastguard women, out of damaged materials supplied by Jones, a light straw hat with blue ribbons to match, and a light lace shawl. Behind this pair hobbled William Jones’s father, whose costume was nautical like his son’s, but more damaged, and who also sported a chimney-pot hat and a white rosette.
The crowd gave a feeble cheer. Matt looked round and smiled, but mingled with her smile there was a kind of vague anxiety and expectation.
It was arranged that Monk should drive Matt in the dog-cart, while William Jones and his father followed in the commoner vehicle. At Pencroes, where the ceremony was to be performed, they were to meet with one Mr. Penarvon, a country squire and kindred spirit of Monk’s, who had promised to be “best man.”
Monk took the reins, while Matt got in and seated herself beside him, the groom getting up behind; and away they went along the sand-choked road, followed by Jones and his father.
The day was bright and merry, but Matt never thought of the old proverb,
“Happy is the bride that the sun shines on;” she was too busy examining the prospect on every side of her. All at once, as the bridal procession wound round the edge of the lonely lake, she uttered a cry of delight. There, standing in its old place by the lake-side, was the caravan.
Monk looked pale—there was something ghostly in the re-appearance even of this inanimate object. He was a man of strong nerve, however, and he speedily smiled at his own fears.
As they approached the spot they saw Tim standing near the vehicle in conversation with two strange gentlemen, one a little elderly man in black broadcloth, the other a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, wearing a light overcoat and a wideawake hat. Directly the procession approached, this group separated, and its three members walked severally into the road, he with the wideawake hat standing right in the centre of the road quietly smoking a cigar.
As the dog-cart came up he held up his hand. Unable to proceed without running him down, Monk pulled up angrily.
“What is it? Why do you block the road?” he cried fiercely, “Excuse me, governor,” returned the other coolly. “Mr. Monk of Monkhurst, I believe?”
“That’s my name.”
“Sorry to trouble you on such a day, but I should like a few words with you.”
“I cannot stay—I am going to be married!”
“So I heard,” said the man, lifting his hat and bowing with a grin to Matt. “Glad to see you, miss. How do you do? But the fact is, Mr. Monk, my business won’t keep. Be good enough to step this way.” Full of some unaccountable foreboding, inspired partly by the stranger’s suave, yet determined, manner, partly by the reappearance of the caravan, Monk alighted, and followed the other across the grass to the close vicinity of the house on wheels. The little elderly man followed, and the man who had first spoken went through the ceremony of introduction.
“This is Mr. Monk, sir. Mr. Monk, this gentleman is Mr. Lightwood, of the firm of Lightwood and Lightwood, solicitors, Chester.”
“And you—who the devil are you?” demanded Monk with his old savagery.
“My name is Marshall, Christian name, John, though my friends call me Jack,” answered the other with airy impudence. “John Marshall, governor, of the detective force.”
Monk now went pale indeed. But recovering himself he cried, “I know neither of you. I warned you that I was in haste. What do you want? Out with it!”
The little man now took up the conversation, speaking in a prim business-like voice, and occasionally referring to a large note-book which he carried.
“Mr. Monk, you are, I am informed, the sole heir male of the late Colonel Monk, your cousin by the father’s side, who was supposed to have died in India in the year 1862.”
“Yes, that’s true. What then?”
“On the report of his death, his name being included in an official list of officers killed and wounded in action, and it being understood that he died without lawful issue, you laid claim to the demesne of Monkshurst, in Cheshire, and that of the same name in Anglesea. Your claim was recognized, and in 1864 you took possession.”
“Well. Have you detained me to hear only what I already knew?”
“Pardon me, I have not finished. I have now to inform you that you inherited under a misconception, first because Colonel Monk was married and had issue, secondly, because he did not die in India, but reached the shores of England, where he perished in the shipwreck of the ship Trinidad, in the year 1864.”
Monk was livid. At this moment Jones, who had been watching the scene from a distance, came over, panting and perspiring in ill-concealed terror.
“Lor’, Mr. Monk, what’s the matter? Look ye now, we shall be late for the wedding.”
As he spoke Marshall, the detective, clapped him playfully on the shoulder.
“How d’ye do, William Jones? I’ve often heard of you, and wished to know you. Pray stop where you are. I’ll talk to you presently.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Monk now said with dogged desperation, “with all this rigmarole, Mr. Lightwood, or whatever your name is. It seems to me you are simply raving. If I am not my cousin’s heir, who is, tell me that?”
“His daughter,” said the man quietly.
“He never married, and he never had a daughter.”
“His daughter, an infant twelve or fourteen months old, sailed to England with him, was shipwrecked with him, but saved by a special Providence, and has since been living in this place under the name of Matt Jones.”
“Your intended bride, you know,” added Marshall with an insinuating smile. “Hullo, where is the young lady?”
Monk looked round towards the dog-cart and on every side, but Matt was nowhere to-be seen.
“I see her go into that theer cart,” said William Jones.
“Call her,” cried Monk. “I’ll stay no longer here. Listen to me, you two. Whether you are telling truth or lies, that girl is going to become my wife—I have her guardian’s consent, and she herself, I may tell you, fully appreciates the honour I am doing her.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Lightwood, smiling. “Unfortunately I, as Miss Monk’s legal adviser, must have a say in the matter. Doubtless this marriage would be a very pretty arrangement for keeping the late Colonel Monk’s fortune and property in your possession, but I cannot conscientiously approve of the young lady’s marriage to an assassin.”
“An assassin!—what—what do you mean?” gasped Monk, staggering as if from a blow.
“Tell him, Mr. Marshall.”
“All right, sir. Well, you see, Mr. Monk of Monkshurst,” continued the detective, grimly yet playfully, “you’re accused of making away with—murdering, in fact—a young gentleman who came to Aberglyn a few weeks ago in that little house on wheels; and this nice friend of yours,” (here he again slapped William Jones on the shoulder) “is accused of being your accomplice.”
“No, no. I never done it! I’m innocent, I am!” cried William Jones. “Tell ’em, Mr. Monk, tell ’em—I’d nowt to do with it.”
“Silence, you fool,” said the other; then he added, turning on his accusers, “You are a couple of madmen, I think! I know nothing of the young man you speak of! I have heard that he is missing, that is all; but there is no evidence that any harm has come to him, for his body has not been found.”
Here Marshall turned with a wink to William Jones, and nudged him in the ribs.
“Don’t you think now,” he asked, “it might be worth while looking for it in that little underground parlour of yours, down alongside the sea?”
William Jones uttered a despairing groan, and fell on his knees.
“I’m ruined!” he cried. “Oh, Mr. Monk, it’s your doing! Lord help me! They knows everything.”
“Curse you, hold your tongue!” said Monk, with a look of mad contempt and hatred. “These men are only playing upon your fears, but they cannot frighten me.”
“No?” remarked the detective, lighting his cigar, which had gone out. “I think we shall even manage that in time.”
As he spoke he carelessly, and as if inadvertently, drew out a pair of steel handcuffs, which he looked at reflectively, threw up and caught underhand in the air.