The Project Gutenberg EBook of Matt, by Robert Buchanan This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Matt A Story of A Caravan Author: Robert Buchanan Release Date: August 10, 2017 [EBook #55325] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATT *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive MATT A Story Of A Caravan By Robert Buchanan A New Edition, with a Frontispiece London: Chatto & Windus 1897 0010 0013 T CONTENTS MATT CHAPTER I.—FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE CARAVAN. CHAPTER II.—LEAVES FROM A YOUNG GENTLEMAN’S JOURNAL. CHAPTER III.—MATT MAKES HER FIRST APPEARANCE. CHAPTER IV.—INTRODUCES WILLIAM JONES AND HIS FATHER. CHAPTER V.—CONCLUDES WITH A KISS. CHAPTER VI.—ALSO CONCLUDES WITH A KISS. CHAPTER VII.—MATT GROWS MATRIMONIAL. CHAPTER VIII.—THE DEVIL’S CAULDRON. CHAPTER IX.—THE SECRET OF THE CAVE. CHAPTER X.—MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR OF THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. CHAPTER XI.—BURIED! CHAPTER XII.—WILLIAM JONES IS SERIOUS. CHAPTER XIII.—THE CARAVAN DISAPPEARS. CHAPTER XIV.—A BRIDAL PARTY AND A LITTLE SURPRISE. CHAPTER XV.—THE “MURDERED” MAN! CONCLUSION. MATT CHAPTER I.—FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE CARAVAN. he afternoon was still very warm, but a grey mist, drifting from the Irish Channel and sailing eastward over the low-lying Island of Anglesea, was beginning to scatter a thin penetrating drizzle on the driver of the caravan. To right and left of the highway stretched a bleak and bare prospect of marshland and moorland, closed to the west by a sky of ever-deepening redness, and relieved here and there by black clumps of stunted woodland. Here and there peeped a solitary farmhouse, with outlying fields of swampy greenness, where lean and spectral cattle were lugubriously grazing; and ever and anon came a glimpse of some lonely lake or tarn, fringed all round with thick sedges, and dotted with water-lilies. The road was as desolate as the prospect, with not a living soul upon it, far as the eye could see. To all this, however, the driver of the caravan paid little attention, owing to the simple fact that he was fast asleep. He was roused by a sudden jolting and swaying of the clumsy vehicle, combined with a sound of splashing water, and opening his eyes sleepily, he perceived that the grey mare had turned aside from the centre of the road, and, having entered a stagnant pond on the roadside, was floundering and struggling in the mud thereof, with the caravan rocking behind her. At the same moment, a head was thrust round the back part of the vehicle, and an angry voice exclaimed— “Tim, you scoundrel, where the devil are you driving to? Wake up, or I’ll break every bone in your skin.” Thus addressed, Tim woke himself with an effort, and looking round with an insinuating smile, replied— “Begorra, Master Charles, I thought it was an earthquake entirely——Come out of that, now! Is it wanting to drownd yourself you are?—G-r-r-r! Sh! Aisy now, aisy!” The latter portion of the above sentence was addressed to the mare, which was at last persuaded to wade out of the cool mud, and return to the dusty track, where she stood quivering and panting. No sooner was the return to terra firma accomplished than a light agile figure descended the steps at the back of the caravan, and ran round to the front. An excited colloquy, angry on the one side, and apologetic on the other, ensued, and did not cease, even when the driver, with a flick of his whip, put the caravan again in motion, while the other strode alongside on foot. It was just such a caravan as may be seen any summer day forming part of the camp on an English common, with the swart face of a gipsy woman looking out at the door, and half a dozen ragged imps and elves rolling on the grass beneath; as may be observed, smothered in wickerwork of all descriptions, or glittering pots and pans, moving from door to door in some sleepy country town, guided by a gloomy gentleman in a velveteen coat and a hareskin cap, and attended by a brawny hussy, also smothered in wickerwork or pots and pans; as, furthermore, may be descried forming part of the procession of a travelling circus, and drawn by a piebald horse which, whenever a good “pitch” is found, will complete its day’s labour by performances in the ring. A caravan of the good old English kind, with small windows ornamented by white muslin curtains, with a chimney atop for the smoke to come through from the fire inside, with a door behind ornamented with a knocker, and only lacking a doorplate to make it quite complete; in short, a house on wheels. The driver, though rough enough, and red with sun and wind, had nothing in common with the ordinary drivers of such vehicles, and, in point of fact, he was neither a gipsy, nor a travelling tinker, nor a circus performer. Though it was summer-time, he wore a large frieze coat, descending almost to his heels, and on his head a wideawake hat, underneath which his lazy, beardless, and somewhat sheepish face shone with indolent good humour. His companion, Master Charles, as he was called, bore still less resemblance to the Bohemians of English lanes and woodlands. He was a slight, handsome, fair-haired young fellow of two or three and twenty, in the tweed attire of an ordinary summer tourist; and every movement he made, every word he spoke, implied the “gentleman born.” Presently, at a signal from his master (such he was), Tim drew rein again. By this time the sun was setting fiery red, far away to the west, and the thin drizzle was becoming more persistent. “How far did they say it was to Pencroes?” “Ten miles, sor.” “The mare is tired out, I think. We shall have to camp by the roadside.” “All right, Master Charles. There’s a handy shelter beyant there where you see the trees,” Tim added, pointing up the road with his whip. The young man looked in that direction, and saw, about a quarter of a mile away, that the highway entered a dark clump of woodland. He nodded assent, and walked rapidly forward, while the caravan followed slowly in his rear. Reaching the spot where the wood began, and entering the shadow of the trees, he soon found a spot well fitted for his purpose. To the left, the road widened out into a grassy patch of common, adorned with, one or two bushes of stunted brown, and stretched out a dusty arm to touch a large white gate, which opened on a gloomy grass-grown avenue winding right through the heart of the wood. The caravan, coming slowly up, was soon placed in a snug position not far from the gate; the horse was taken out and suffered to graze; while Tim, searching about, soon found some dry sticks, and began to light a fire. Diving into the caravan, the young man re- emerged with a camp-stool, on which he sat down, lighted a meerschaum pipe, and began to smoke. They could hear the rain faintly pattering in the boughs above them, but the spot they had chosen was quite sheltered and dry. The fire soon blazed up. Entering the caravan in his turn, Tim brought out a tin kettle full of water, and placed it on the fire, preparatory to making tea. He was thus engaged when the sound of horse’s hoofs was heard along the highway, and presently the figure of a horseman appeared, approaching at a rapid trot. As it came near to the group in the wayside, the horse shied violently, springing from one side of the road to the other, so that its rider, a dark, middle-aged man in an old-fashioned cloak, was almost thrown from the saddle. Uttering a fierce oath, he recovered himself, and, reining in the frightened animal, looked angrily round; then, seeing the cause of the mischance, he forced his horse with no small difficulty to approach the figures by the fire. “Who are you?” he demanded, in harsh, peremptory tones. “What are you doing here?” The young man, pipe in mouth, looked up at him with a smile, but made no reply. “What are you? Vagrants? Do you know this place is private?” And he pointed with his riding-whip to a printed “Notice!” fixed close to the gate upon the stem of a large fir tree. “I beg your pardon,” said the young man, with the utmost sang froid; “we are, I imagine, on the Queen’s highway, and there, with your permission, we purpose to remain for the night.” Struck by the superior manner of the speaker, the new-comer looked at him in some surprise, but with no abatement of his haughty manner. He then glanced at Tim, who was busy with the kettle, from Tim to the grey mare, and from the grey mare to the house on wheels. The scowl on his dark face deepened, and he turned his fierce eyes again on the young man. “Let me warn you that these grounds are private. I suffer no wandering vagabonds to pass that gate.” “May I ask your name?” said the young man in the same cool tones, and with the same quiet smile. B “What is my name to you?” “Well, not much, only I should like to know the title of so very amiable a person.” The other condescended to no reply, but walked his horse towards the gate. “Here, fellow!” he cried, addressing Tim. “Open this gate for me!” “Don’t stir!” said his master. “Let our amiable friend open the gate for himself.” With an angry exclamation, the rider leapt from his saddle, and still holding the horse’s reins, threw the gate wide open. Then, still leading his horse, he strode over towards the young man, who, looking up, saw that he was nearly six feet high, and very powerfully built, “My name is Monk, of Monkshurst,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to teach you to remember it.” “Don’t be afraid,” was the reply. “Monk, of Monkshurst? I shall be certain not to forget it, Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst!—Tim, is the water boiling?” For a moment Mr. Monk, as he called himself, seemed, ready to draw his ridingwhip across the young man’s face; but, conquering himself, he surveyed him from head to foot with savage anger. Nothing daunted, the young man returned his stare with something very like supreme contempt. At last, muttering beneath his breath, Mr. Monk turned away, and leading his horse into the avenue, closed the gate, and remounted; but even then he did not immediately depart, but remained for some minutes, seated in the saddle, scowling over at the encampment. Thus occupied, his face and figure set in the gloomy framework of the trees, he looked even more forbidding than before.’ His face, though naturally handsome, was dark with tempestuous passions, his eyes deep-set and fierce, his clean-shaven jaw square and determined. For the rest, his black hair, which was thickly mixed with iron-grey, fell almost to his shoulders, and his upper lip was covered with an iron-grey moustache. At last, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, Mr. Monk turned his horse round with a fierce jerk of the rein, and rode rapidly away in the shadow of the wood. CHAPTER II.—LEAVES FROM A YOUNG GENTLEMAN’S JOURNAL. efore setting forth on this memorable pilgrimage to nowhere, I promised a certain friend of mine, in literary Bohemia, to keep notes of my adventures, with a view to future publication, illustrated by my own brilliant sketches. I fear the promise was a rash one, firstly, because I am constitutionally lazy and averse to literary exertion; and secondly, because I have, as yet, met with no adventures worth writing about. Not that I have altogether lost my first enthusiasm for the idea. There would be novelty in the title, at any rate: ‘Cruises in a Caravan, by Charles Brinkley, with illustrations by the author; photographic frontispiece, the caravan, with Tim as large as life, smirking self-consciously in delight at having his ‘pictur’ taken. My friend B——— has promised to find me a publisher, if I will only persevere. Well, we shall see. If the book does not progress, it will be entirely my own fault; for I have any amount of time on my hands. Paint as hard as I may all day, I have always the long evenings, when I must either write, read, or do nothing. “So I am beginning this evening, exactly a fortnight after my first start from Chester. I purchased the caravan there from a morose individual with one eye, who had had it built with a view to the exhibition of a Wild Man of Patagonia, but said Wild Man having taken it into his head to return to County Cork, where he was born, and the morose individual having no definite idea of a novelty to take his place, the caravan came into the market. Having secured this travelling palace, duly furnished with window-blinds, a piece of carpet, a chair bedstead, a table, a stove, cooking utensils, not to speak of my own artistic paraphernalia, I sent over to Mulrany, Co. Mayo, for my old servant, Tim-na-Chaling, or Tim o’ the Ferry—otherwise Tim Lenney; and with his assistance, when he arrived, I purchased a strong mare at Chester Fair. All these preliminaries being settled, we started one fine morning soon after daybreak, duly bound for explorations along the macadamized highways and byways of North Wales. “I am pleased to say that Tim, after he had recovered the first shock of seeing a peripatetic dwelling-house, took to the idea wonderfully. ‘Sure, it’s just like the ould cabin at home,’ he averred, ‘barrin’ the wheels, and the windies, and the chimley, and the baste to pull it along;’ and I think the resemblance would have been complete in his eyes, if there had only been two or three pigs to trot merrily behind the back door. As for myself, I took to the nomad life as naturally as if I had never in my life been in a civilized habitation. To be able to go where one pleased, to dawdle as one pleased, to stop and sleep where one pleased, was certainly a new sensation. My friends, observing my sluggish ways, had often compared me to that interesting creature, the snail; now the resemblance was complete, for I was a snail indeed, with my house comfortably fixed upon my shoulders, crawling tranquilly along. “Of course the caravan has its inconveniences. Inside, to quote the elegant simile of our progenitors, there is scarcely room enough to swing a cat in; and when my bed is made, and Tim’s hammock is swung just inside the door, the place forms the tiniest of sleeping- chambers. Then our cooking arrangements are primitive, and as Tim has no idea whatever of the culinary art, beyond being able to boil potatoes in their skins, and make very doubtful ‘stirabout,’ there is a certain want of variety in our repasts. To break the monotony of this living I endeavour, whenever we come to a town with a decent hotel in it, to take a square meal away from home. “Besides the inconveniences which I have mentioned, but which were, perhaps, hardly worth chronicling, the caravan has social drawbacks, more particularly embarrassing to a modest man like myself. It is confusing, for example, on entering a town, or good- sized village, to be surrounded by the entire juvenile population, who cheer us vociferously, under the impression that we constitute a ‘show,’ and afterwards, on ascertaining their mistake, pursue us with opprobious jeers; and it is distressing to remark that our mode of life, instead of inviting confidence, causes us to be regarded with suspicion by the vicar of the parish and the local policemen. We are exposed, moreover, to ebullitions of bucolic humour, which have taken the form of horse-play on more than one occasion. Tim has had several fights with the Welsh peasantry, and has generally come off victorious; though on one occasion he would have been overpowered by numbers if I had not gone to his assistance. Generally speaking, nothing will remove from the rural population an idea that the caravan forms an exhibition of some sort. When I airily alight and stroll through a village, sketch-book in hand, I have invariably at my heels a long attendant train of all ages, obviously under the impression that I am looking for a suitable ‘pitch,’ and am going to ‘perform.’ “To avoid these and similar inconveniences we generally halt for the night in some secluded spot—some roadside nook, or outlying common. But there is a fatal attraction in the caravan: it seems to draw spectators, as it were, out of the very bowels of the earth. No matter how desolate the place we have chosen, we have scarcely made ourselves comfortable when an audience gathers, and stragglers drop in, amazed and open-mouthed. I found it irksome at first to paint in the open air, with a gazing crowd at my back making audible comments on my work as it progressed; but I soon got used to it, and having discovered certain good ‘subjects’ here and there among my visitors, I take the publicity now as a matter of course. Even when busy inside, I am never astonished to see strange noses flattened against the windows—strange faces peeping in at the door. The human temperament accustoms itself to anything. When all is said and done, it is flattering to be an object of such public interest; and I do believe that when I return to civilization, and find no one caring in the least what I do, I shall miss the worldly tribute which is now my daily due. “I begin this record in the Island of Anglesea, where we have arrived after our fortnight’s wanderings in the more mountainous districts of the mainland. Anglesea, I am informed, is chiefly famous for its pigs and its wild ducks. So far as I have yet explored it, I find it flat and desolate enough; but I have been educated in Irish landscapes, and don’t object to flatness when combined with desolation. I like these dreary meadows, these black stretches of melancholy moorland, these wild lakes and lagoons. “At the present moment I am encamped in a spot where, in all probability, I shall remain for days. I came upon it quite by accident, about midday yesterday, when on my way to the market town of Pencroes; or rather, when I imagined that I was going thither, while I had in reality, after hesitating at three cross roads, taken the road which led in exactly the opposite direction. The way was desolate and dreary beyond measure—stretches of morass and moorland on every side, occasionally rising into heathery knolls or hillocks, or strewn with huge pieces of stone like the moors in Cornwall Presently the open moorland ended, and we entered a region of sandy hillocks, sparsely ornamented here and there with long harsh grass. If one could imagine the waves of the ocean, at some moment of wild agitation, suddenly frozen to stillness, and retaining intact their tempestuous forms, it would give some idea of the hillocks I am describing. They rose on every side of the road, completely shutting out the view, and their pale livid yellowness, scarcely relieved with a glimpse of greenness, was wearisome and lonely in the extreme. As we advanced among them, the road we were pursuing grew worse and worse, till it became so choked and covered with drifted sand as to be hardly recognizable, and I need hardly say that it was hard work for one horse to pull the caravan along; more than once, indeed, the wheels fairly stuck, and Tim and I had to pull with might and main to get them free. “We had proceeded in this manner for some miles, and I was beginning to realize the fact that we were out of our reckoning, when, suddenly emerging from between two sand-hills, I saw a wide stretch of green meadow land, and beyond it a glorified piece of water. The sun was shining brightly, the water sparkled like a mirror, calm as glass, and without a breath. As we appeared, a large heron rose from the spot in the water-side where we had been standing Still as a stone, without a sound Above his dim blue shade, and sailed leisurely away. Around the lake, which was about a mile in circumference, the road ran winding till it reached the further side, where more sand-hills began; but between these sand-hills I caught a sparkling glimpse of more water, and (guided to my conclusion by the red sail of a fishing-smack just glimmering in the horizon line) I knew that further water was—the sea. “The spot had all the charm of complete desolation, combined with the charm which always, to my mind, pertains to lakes and lagoons. Eager as a boy or a loosened retriever, I ran across the meadow, and found the grass long and green, and sown with innumerable crowsfoot flowers; underneath the green was sand again, but here it glimmered like gold-dust. As I reached the sedges on the lake-side, a teal rose in full summer plumage, wheeled swiftly round the lake, then returning, splashed down boldly, and swam within a stone’s throw of the shore, when, peering through the rushes, I caught a glimpse of his mate, paddling anxiously along with eight little fluffs of down behind her. Then, just outside the sedges, I saw the golden shield of water broken by the circles of rising trout. It was too much. I hastened back to the caravan, and informed Tim that I had no intention of going any further—that day at least. “So here we have been since yesterday, and, up to this, have not set eyes upon a single soul. Such peace and quietness is a foretaste of Paradise. As this is the most satisfactory day I have yet spent in my pilgrimage, although it bears, at the same time, a family likeness to the other days of the past fortnight, I purpose setting down verbatim, seriatim, and chronologically the manner in which I occupied myself from dawn to sunset. “6 a.m.—Wake and see that Tim has already disappeared, and folded up his hammock. Observe the morning sun looking in with a fresh cheery countenance at the window. Turn over again with a yawn, and go to sleep for another five minutes. “7.15 a.m.—Wake again, and discover, by looking at my watch, that instead of five minutes I have slept an hour and a quarter. Spring up at once, and slip on shirt and trousers; then pass out, barefooted, into the open air. No sign of Tim, but a fire is lighted close to the caravan, which shadows it from the rays of the morning sun. Stroll down to the lake, and, throwing off what garments I wear, prepare for a bath. Cannot get out for a swim on account of the reeds. The bath over, return and finish my toilet in the caravan. “8 a.m.—Tim has reappeared. He has been right down to the sea-shore, a walk of about two miles and a half. He informs me, to my disgust, that there is some sort of a human settlement there, and a lifeboat station. He has brought back in his baglet, as specimens of the local products, a dozen new-laid eggs, some milk, and a loaf of bread. The last, I observe, is in a fossil state. I asked who sold it him? He answers, William Jones. “8.30 a.m.—We breakfast splendidly. Even the fossil loaf yields sustenance, after it is cut up and dissolved in hot tea. Between whiles, Tim informs me that the settlement down yonder is, in his opinion, a poor sort of a place. There are several white-washed cottages, and a large roofless house for all the world like a church. Devil the cow or pig did he see at all, barrin’ a few hens. Any boats? I ask. Yes, one with the bottom knocked out, belonging to William Jones. “Tim has got this name so pat, that my curiosity begins to be aroused. ‘Who the deuce is William Jones?’ ‘Sure, thin,’ says Tim, ‘he’s the man that lives down beyant, by the sea.’ I demand, somewhat irritably, if the place contains only one inhabitant. Devil another did Tim see, he explains,—barrin’ William Jones. “2.30 a.m. (s.c.)—Start painting in the open air, under the shade of a large white cotton umbrella. Paint on till 1 p.m. “1 p.m.—Take a long walk among the sand-hills, avoiding the settlement beyond the lake. Don’t want to meet any of the aboriginals, more particularly William Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Atlantic billows, assuming said billows to be solid; now I am lost in the trough of the sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing. I soon lose myself, every hillock being exactly like another. Suddenly, a hare starts from under my feet, and goes leisurely away. I remember an old amusement of mine in the west of Ireland, and I track puss by her footprints—now clearly and beautifully printed in the soft sand of the hollows, now more faintly marked on the harder sides of the ridges. The sun blazes down, the refraction of the heat from the sand is overpowering, the air is quivering, sparkling, and pulsating, as if full of innumerable sand-crystals. A horrible croak from overhead startles me, and looking up, I see an enormous raven, wheeling along in circles, and searching the ground for mice or other prey. “Looking at my watch, I find that I have been toiling in this sandy wilderness for quite two hours. Time to get back and dine. Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to discover where I am. Can see nothing but the sandy billows on every side, and am entirely at a loss which way to go. At last, after half an hour’s blind wandering, stumble by accident on the road by the lakeside, and see the caravan in the distance. “4 p.m.—Dinner. Boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, fried bacon. Tim’s cooking is primitive, but I could devour anything—even William Jones’s fossil bread. I asked if any human being has visited the camp. ‘Sorra one,’ Tim says, looking rather disappointed. He has got to feel himself a public character, and misses the homage of the vulgar. “Paint again till 6 p.m. “A beautiful sunset. The sand-hills grow rosy in the light, the lake deepens from crimson to purple, the moon comes out like a silver sickle over the sandy sea. A thought seizes me as the shadows increase. Now is the time to entice the pink trout from their depths in the lake. I get out my fishing-rod and line, and, selecting two or three flies which seem suitable, prepare for action. My rod is only a small singlehanded one, and it is difficult to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish are rising thickly out in the tranquil pools, and, determined not to be beaten, I wade in to the knees. Half a dozen small trout, each about the size of a small herring, reward my enterprise. When I have captured them, the moon is high up above the sand-hills, and it is quite dark. “Such is the chronicle of the past day. By the light of my lamp inside the caravan I have written it down. It has been all very tranquil and uneventful, but very delightful, and a day to be marked with a white stone in one respect—that from dawn to sunset I have not set eyes on a human being, except my servant. “Stop, though! I am wrong. Just as I was returning from my piscatorial excursion to the lake I saw, passing along the road in the direction of the sea, a certain solitary horseman, who accosted me not too civilly on the roadside the night before last. He scowled at me in passing, and of course recognized me by the aid of the caravan. His name is Monk, of Monkshurst, and he seems to be pretty well monarch of all he surveys. I have an impression that Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst, and myself are destined to be better, or worse, acquainted.” E CHAPTER III.—MATT MAKES HER FIRST APPEARANCE. ureka! I have had an adventure at last; and yet, after all, what am I talking about? It is no adventure at all, but only a commonplace incident. This is how it happened. “I was seated this morning before my easel, out in the open air, painting busily, when I thought I heard a movement behind me. “I should have premised, by the way, that Tim had gone off on another excursion into the Jones’s territory, on the quest for more eggs and milk. “I glanced over my shoulder, and saw, peering round the corner of my white sunshade, a pair of large eager eyes—fixed, not upon me, but upon the canvas I was painting. “Not in the least surprised, I thought to myself, ‘At last! The caravan has exercised its spell upon the district, and the usual audience is beginning to gather.’ So I went tranquilly on with my work, and paid no more attention. “Presently, however, fatigued with my work, I indulged in a great yawn, and rose to stretch myself. I then perceived that my audience was more select than numerous, consisting of only one individual—a young person in a Welsh chimney-pot hat. Closer observation showed me that said hat was set on a head of closely cropped curly black hair, beneath which there shone a brown boyish face freckled with sun and wind, a pair of bright black eyes, and a laughing mouth with two rows of the whitest of teeth. But the face, though boyish, did not belong to a boy. The young person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a coloured woollen shawl or scarf thrown oyer the shoulders, and wore thick woollen stockings and rough shoes, the latter many sizes too large. The gown was too short for the wearer, who had evidently outgrown it; it reached only just below the knee, and when the young person moved one caught a glimpse of something very much resembling a dilapidated garter. “The young person’s smile was so bright and good-humoured that I found myself answering it with a friendly nod. “‘How are you?’ I said gallantly. ‘I hope you are quite well?’ “She nodded in reply, and stooping down, plucked a long blade of grass, which she placed in her mouth and began to nibble— bashfully, I thought. “‘May I ask where you come from?’ I said. ‘I mean, where do you live?’ “Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across the lake in the direction of the sea. I could not help noticing then, as an artist, that the sleeve of her gown was loose and torn, and that her arm was round and well-formed, and her hand, though rough and sun-burned, quite genteelly small. “‘If it is not inquisitive, may I ask your name?’ “‘Matt,’ was the reply. “‘Is that all? What is your other name?’ “‘I’ve got no other name. I’m Matt, I am.’ “‘Indeed. Do your parents live here?’ “‘Got no parents,’ was the reply. “‘Your relations, then. You belong to some one, I suppose?’ “She gave me another nod. “‘Yes,’ she answered, nibbling rapidly. ‘I belong to William Jones.’ “‘Oh, to him,’ I said, feeling as familiar with the name as if I had known it all my life. ‘But he’s not your father?’ “She shook her head emphatically. “‘But of course he’s a relation?’ “Another shake of the head. “‘But you belong to him?’ I said, considerably puzzled. ‘Where were you born?’ “‘I wasn’t born at all,’ answered Matt. ‘I come ashore.’ “This was what the immortal Dick. Swiveller would have called a ‘staggerer.’ I looked at the girl again, inspecting her curiously from top to toe. Without taking her eyes from mine, she stood on one leg bashfully, and fidgeted with the other foot. She was certainly not bad-looking, though, evidently a very rough diamond. Even the extraordinary head-gear became her well. “‘I know what you are doing there,’ she cried suddenly, pointing to my easel. ‘You, was painting!’ The discovery not being a brilliant one, I took no trouble to confirm it; but Matt thereupon walked over to the canvas, and, stooping down, examined it with undisguised curiosity. Presently she glanced again at me. “‘I know what this is,’ she cried, pointing. ‘It’s water. And that’s the sky. And that’s trees. And these here’—for a moment she seemed in doubt, but added hastily—‘pigs.’ “Now, as the subject represented a flock of sheep huddling together close to a pond on a rainy common, this suggestion was not over complimentary to my artistic skill. I was on the point of correcting my astute critic, when she added, after a moment’s further inspection— “‘No; they’re sheep. Look ye now, I know! They’re sheep.’ “‘Pray, don’t touch the paint,’ I suggested, approaching her in some alarm. ‘It is wet, and comes off.’ “She drew back cautiously; and then, as a preliminary to further conversation, sat down on the grass, giving me further occasion to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a free-and-easiness, not to say boldness, about her manner, tempered though it was with gusts of bashfulness, which began to amuse me. “‘Can you paint faces?’ she asked dubiously. “I replied that I could even aspire to that accomplishment, by which I understood her to mean portrait painting, if need were. She gave a quiet nod of satisfaction. “There was a painter chap came to Aberglyn last summer, and he painted William Jones.’ “‘Indeed?’ I said, with an assumption of friendly interest. “‘Yes; I wanted him to paint me, but he wouldn’t. He painted William Jones’s father though, along o’ William Jones.’ “This with an air of unmistakable disgust and recrimination. I looked at the girl more observantly. It had never occurred to me till that moment that she would make a capital picture,—just the sort of ‘study’ which would fetch a fair price in the market. I adopted her free and easy manner, which was contagious, and sat down on the grass opposite to her. “‘I tell you what it is, Matt,’ I said familiarly, ‘I’ll paint you, though the other painter chap wouldn’t.’ “‘You will!’ she cried, blushing with delight. “‘Certainly; and a very nice portrait I think you’ll make. Be good enough to take off your hat that I may have a better look at you.’ “She obeyed me at once, and threw the clumsy thing down on the grass beside her. Then I saw that her head was covered with short black curls, clinging round a bold white brow unfreckled by the sun. She glanced at me sidelong, laughing and showing her white teeth. Whatever her age was she was quite old enough to be a coquette. “Promptly as possible I put the question: ‘You have not told me how old you are?’ “‘Fifteen,’ she replied without hesitation. “‘I should have taken you to be at least a year older.’ “She shook her head. “‘It’s fifteen year come Whitsuntide,’ she explained, ‘since I come ashore.’ “Although I was not a little curious to know what this ‘coming ashore’ meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another occasion. Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan with considerable interest, I asked her if she knew what it was, and if she had ever seen anything like it before. She replied in the negative, though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan’s uses. I thought this a good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would she like to look at the interior? She said she would, though without exhibiting much enthusiasm. “I thereupon led the way up the steps and into the vehicle. Matt followed; but, so soon as she caught a glimpse of the interior, stood timidly on the threshold. What is there in the atmosphere of a house, even the rudest, which places the visitor at a disadvantage as compared with the owner? Even animals feel this, and dogs especially, when visiting strange premises, exhibit most abject humility. But I must not generalize. The bearings of this remark, to quote my friend Captain Cuttle, lie in the application of it. Matt for a moment was awed. “‘Come in, Matt; come in,’ I said. “She came in by slow degrees; and I noticed for the first time—seeing how near her hat was to the roof,—that she was unusually tall. I then did the honours of the place; showed her my sleeping arrangements, my culinary implements, everything that I thought would interest her. I offered her the armchair, or turned-up bedstead; but she preferred a stool which I sometimes used for my feet, and sitting down upon it, looked round her with obvious admiration. “‘Should you like to live in a house like this?’ I asked encouragingly. “She shook her head with decision. “‘Why not?’ I demanded. “She did not exactly know why, or at any rate could not explain. Wishing to interest and amuse her, I handed her a portfolio of my sketches, chiefly in pencil and pen-and-ink, but a few in water-colours. Her manner changed at once, and she turned them over with little cries of delight. It was clear that Matt had a taste for the beautiful in Art, but her chief attraction was for pictures representing the human face or figure. “Among the sketches she found a crayon drawing of an antique and blear-eyed gentleman in a skull cap, copied from some Rembrandtish picture I had seen abroad. “‘I know who this is!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s William Jones’s father!’ “I assured her on my honour that William Jones’s father was not personally known to me, but she seemed a little incredulous. Presently she rose to go.” "'I can't stop no longer,' she explained; 'I've got to go up to Monkshurst for William Jones.' "'Monkshurst? Is that where the polite Mr. Monk resides?' "'Yes; up in the wood,' she replied, with a grimace expressive of no little dislike. "'Is Mr. Monk a friend of yours?' "Her answer was a very decided negative. Then, slouching to the door, she swung herself down to the ground. I followed, and stood on the threshold, looking down at her. "'Don't forget that I'm to paint your picture,' I said. 'When will you come back?' "'To-morrow, may be.' "'I shall expect you. Good-by!' "'Good-by, master,' she returned, reaching up to shake hands. "I watched her as she walked away toward the road, and noticed that she took bold strides like a boy. On reaching the road, she looked back and laughed, then she drew herself together, and began running like a young deer, with little or nothing of her former clumsiness, until she disappeared among the sand-hills. "Thursday.—This morning, just after breakfast, when I had entered the Caravan to prepare my materials for the day's painting, Tim appeared at the door with a horrid grin. "'There's a young lady asking for ye,' he said. "I had forgotten for the moment my appointment of the day before, and, when I leaped from the Caravan, I perceived, standing close by, with her back to me, and her face toward the lake, the figure of a young woman. At first I failed to identify her, for she wore a black hat and a white feather, a cloth jacket, and a dress which almost reached the ground; but she turned round as I approached her, and I recognized my new acquaintance. "I can not say that she was improved by her change of costume. In the first place, it made her look several years older—in fact, quite young-womanly. In the second place, it was tawdry, not to say, servant-gally, if I may coin such an adjective. The dress was of thin silk, old and frayed, and looking as if it had suffered a good deal from exposure to the elements, as was indeed the actual case. The jacket was also old, and seemed made of the rough material which is usually cut into sailors' pea-jackets; which was the case also. The hat was obviously new, but, just as obviously, home-made. “‘So you have come,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘Upon my word, I didn’t know you.’ “She laughed delightedly, and glanced down at her attire, which clearly afforded her the greatest satisfaction. “‘I put on my Sunday clothes,’ she explained, “cause I was going to have my likeness took. Don’t you tell William Jones.’ “I promised not to betray her to that insufferable nuisance, and refrained from informing her that I thought her ordinary costume far more becoming than her seventh-day finery. “‘That’s a nice dress,’ I said, hypocritically. ‘Where did you buy it?’ “‘I didn’t buy it. It come ashore.’ “‘What! When you “come ashore” yourself?’ “‘No fear!’ she answered. ‘Last winter when the big ship went to bits out there.’ “‘Oh, I see! Then it was a portion of a wreck?’ “‘Yes, it come ashore, and, look ye now, this jacket come ashore too. On a sailor chap.’ “‘And the sailor chap made you a present of it, I suppose?’ “‘No fear!’ she repeated, with her sharp shake of the head. ‘How could he give it me, when he was drownded and come ashore? William Jones gave it to me, and I altered it my own self, look ye now, to make it fit.’ “She was certainly an extraordinary young person, and wore her mysterious finery with a coolness I thought remarkable, it being quite clear, from her explanation, that all was fish that came to her net, or, in other words, that dead men’s clothes were as acceptable to her unprejudiced taste as any others. However, the time was hastening on, and I had my promise to keep. So I got my crayon materials, and made Matt sit down before me on a stool, first insisting, however, that she should divest herself of her head-gear, which was an abomination, but which she discarded with extreme reluctance. Directly I began, she became rigid, and fixed herself, so to speak, as people do when being photographed—her eyes glaring on vacancy, her whole face lost in self-satisfied vacuity. “‘You needn’t keep like that,’ I cried, ‘I want your face to have some expression. Move your head about as much as you like, laugh and talk—it will be all the better.’ “‘Last time I was took,’ she replied, ‘the chap said I mustn’t move.’ “‘Ah! I suppose he was a travelling photographer.’ “He had a little black box, like, on legs, and a cloth on top of it, and he looked at me through a hole in the middle. Then he cried, ‘Now,’ and held up his hand for me to keep still as a mouse; then he counted fifty—and I was took.’ “‘Ah! Indeed! Was it a good likeness?’” “‘Yes, master. But I looked like the black woman who come ashore last Easter was a year.’” “With conversation like this we beguiled the time, while I proceeded rapidly with my drawing. At the end of a couple of hours Matt had become so fidgety that I thought it advisable to give her a rest. She sprang up and ran over to inspect the picture. The moment her eyes fell upon it, she uttered a rapturous cry. “‘Look ye now, ain’t it pretty? Master, am I like that?’ “I answered her it was an excellent likeness, and not too flattering. Her face fell however a little as she proceeded. “‘Are my cheeks as red as that, master?’” “‘You are red, Matt,’ I replied, flippantly; ‘so are the roses.’” “She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘When it’s finished, will you give it to me to keep?’ “‘Well, we shall see.’ “‘I gave t’other chap a shilling for his, frame and all, but I’ve got no more money,’ she continued, with an insinuating smile, which, as a man of gallantry, I could not resist. So I promised that, if she behaved herself properly, I would in all probability make her the present she coveted. “‘You must come again to-morrow,’ I said, as we shook hands, ‘and I’ll finish the thing off.’ “’ All right, master, I’ll come.’ “And, with a nod and a bright smile, she walked away. “During the whole of this interview, Tim had not been unobservant, and so soon as I was left alone he looked up from the work he was engaged upon, viz. potato-washing, and gave a knowing smile. “‘Sure she’s a fine bold colleen,’ he said. ‘Does your honour know who she is?’ “‘I have not the slightest idea.’ “‘They’re saying down beyant that she’s a say-fondling, and has neither father nor mother, nor any belongings.’ “‘Pray who was your informant?’ “‘The man who picked her from the say—William Jones hisself.’ “That name again. It was becoming too much for flesh and blood to bear. From the first moment of my arrival I had heard no other, and I had begun to detest its very sound.” CHAPTER IV.—INTRODUCES WILLIAM JONES O AND HIS FATHER. ur 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...