CHAPTER VI.—ALSO CONCLUDES WITH A KISS.
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.