i!|atneU Uninetatt 3tltata, Hftta %htk Sitbrarg BOUGHT WITH THE INCC SAGE ENDOWME vJT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. I AGE 1891 AE OF THE Cornell University Library PR 4262.M5 1897 Matt; a story of a caravan. 3 1924 013 445 741 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013445741 EGBERT BUCHANAN'S NOVELS. Clown 870, cloth extra, 39, 6d. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 29. each. THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. A CHILD OF NATURE, GOD AND THE MAN. With 11 Illustrations by Fred. Barnakd. THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE, LOVE ME FOR EVER, ANNAN WATER. THE NEW ABELARD. FOXGLOVE MANOR, MATT : a Story of a Caravan. THE MASTER OF THE MINE. THE HEIR OF LINNE. WOMAN AND THE MAN. Crown 8to, cloth extra, 3s. 6d, each. RED AND WHITE HEATHER, LADY KILPATRICK. THE WANDERING JEW : a Christmas Carol. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. THE CHARLATAN. By Robert Buchanan and Henkt Mukeat. Crown 8vo, cloth, with a Frontispiece by T. H. Robinson, 3). 6d. ; post 8to, picture boards, 2s. Iootoh: CHATTO ft WINDUS, 111 St. MABira's Lakb, W.C. MATT HE DKEW OUT A PAIR OF STEEL HANDCUFFS/ \.page 226. M ATT A STORY OF A CARAVAN ROBERT^UCHANAN AUTHOR OF "THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD," "goD AND THE MAN," ETC. A NEW EDITION, WITH A FRONTISPIECE LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1897 CONTENTS. OBAPTEI t TAOn I. FiEST Glimpse of the Caravan 1 II. Leaves from a Young Gentleman's Journal ... 13 III. Matt makes her First Appearance ... 31 IV. Introduces William Jones and his Father 50 V. Concludes with a Kiss 65 VI. Also concludes with a Kiss 81 VII. Matt grows Matrimonial ... 105 VIII. The Devil's Cauldron 123 IX. The Secret op the Cave ... 143 X. Mysterious Behaviour of the Young Gentleman 170 XI. Buried! ... 183 XII. William Jones is Serious 192 XIII. XIV. The Caravan disappears ... A Bridal Party and a Little Sur- 200 prise 211 XV. The "Murdered" Man! ... 229 Conclusion ... 285 MATT. CHAPTER I. FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE CARAVAN. The 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 wood- land. Here and there peeped a solitary I MATT. 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 open- ing 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 — FIRST QLIMPSE OF TEE CARAVAN. A "Tiiii, you scoundrel, where tlie 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 insinu- ating 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 1 Sh 1 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 aiecomplished than ti light agile figtire descended the steps at the back of' the caravan, and ran round to the front. Au excited colloquy, angry on the One side, and apologetic on the other, ^Usued, and did not cease, even when the driver, with a flick of his whip, put the 4 MATT. 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 gentle- man in a velveteen coat and a hareskin ^ap, 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, when- ever a good " pitch " is found, wiU complete its day's labour by performances in the ring. A caravan of the good old English kind, with email windows ornamented by white muslin curtains, with a ehimney atop for the smoke FIRST GLIMPSE OF TEE CARAVAN. 5 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 ired 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 Eng- lish 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." 6 MATT. 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 Pen- croes ? " " 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, Avhile the caravan followed slowly in his rear. Beaching 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 Avidcucd out into a FIBST GLIMPSE OF THE OAEAVAK 7 grassy patch of common, adorned -with, one or two bushes of stunted brown, and stretclied 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 8 MATT. 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 difiiculty to approach the figures by the fire. " Who are you ? " he demanded, in harsh, peremptory tones. " What are you doing here 1 " The young man, pipe in mouth, looked up at him with a smUe, 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. FIRST GLIMPSE OF TUB CABAVAN. 9 "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 vaga- bonds to pass that gate." " May I ask your name ? " said the young man in the same cool tones, and with the same quiet smile. " What is my name to you 1 " " AVell, not much, only I should like to know the title of so very amiable a person." 10 MATT. The otlxer 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 him- self." 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, lookiog 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 I — Tim, is the water boiling ? " For a moment Mr. Monk, as he called himself, seemed, ready to draw his riding- FIRST GLIMPSE OF TIIE CAIiAVAN. 11 •whip across the young man's face ; bufc, con- quering 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 encamp- ment. 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. 12 MATT. 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. ( 13 ) CHAPTER II. LEAVES PEOM A YOUNG GENTLEMAN'S JOUENAL. "Befobe setting forth on this memorable pUgrimage 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 consti- tutionally lazy and averse to literary exer- tion ; 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 14 MATT. a Caravan,' by Charles Brinkley, with illus- trations by the author ; photographic fron- tispiece, the caravan, with Tim as large aa 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 wiU 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 LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL. 15 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 parapher- nalia, I sent over to Mubany, 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 pur- chased 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 macada- mized 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 16 MATT. 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 civUized 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 com- pared 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, crawl- ing tranquilly along. " Of course the caravan has its incon- veniences. Inside, to quote the elegant simUe of our progenitors, there is scarcely room enough to swing a cat in ; and whea my bed is made, and Tim's hammock is swung just inside the door, the place forma the tiniest of sleeping-chambers. Then our cooking arrangements are primitive, and as. Tim has no idea whatever of the culinary LEAVES FROM A JOUBNAL. 17 art, beyond being able to boil potatoes in their skins, and make very doubtful * stir- about,' there is a certain want of variety in our repasts. To break the monotony of this living 1 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 con- fusing, 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. 18 MATT. 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 ^dctoridus ; though on one occasion he would have been over- powered 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 attend- ant 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 inconveni- ences we generally halt for the night in some secluded spot — some roadside nook, or out- lying common. But there is a fatal attrac- tion in the caravan : it seems to draw spectators, as it were, out of the very bowels of the earth. No matter how desolate the LEAVES FliOM A JOURNAL. 19 place we have chosen, Ave 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 tem- perament 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 v. Anglesea, where we have arrived after our 20 MATT. fortnight's wanderings in the more moun- tainous 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 hesita- ting 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 moor- land on every side, occasionally rising into LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL. 21 heathery knolls or hillocks, or strewn with huge pieces of stone like the moors in Corn- walL Presently the open moorland ended, and we entered a region of sandy hiUocks, 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 hUlocks 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 T had to pull with might and main to get them free. 22 MATT. " 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 sliade, 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-hUls 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 aU the charm of complete LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL. 23 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 ; under- neath 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. Ifc was too much. I hastened back to the caravan, and informed Tim that I had no intention of goin^ any further — that day at least. "So here we have been since yesterday, 24 MATT. 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 dowiji 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 ham- mock. 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 LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL. 25 it from the rays of the morning sun. Stroll down to the lake, and, throwing off what garments I wear, prepare for a bath. Can- not 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 mUk, and a loaf of bread. The last, I observe, is in a fossil state. I asked who sold it himi 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 26 MATT. wliitc-waslied 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. — Start painting in the open au', 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 WiUiam Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Atlantic billows, assuming said billows to LEAVES FROM A JOUBNAL. 27 be solid; now I am lost in tlie 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 1 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 fuU of innu- merable sand-crystals. A horrible croak &om 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 28 MATT. 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 lake- side, and see the caravan in the distance. " 4 p.m. — Dinner, Boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, fried bacon, Tim's cooking is primi- tive, but I could devour anything — even WUliam 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 lEAVJUS FROM A JOURNAL. 29 fishing-rod. and line, and, selecting two or three flies which seem suitable, prepare for action. My rod is only a small single- handed 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 tranquU 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 w^as returning from my piscatorial excursion to the lake I saw, passing along the road in 30 MATT. 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 aU he surveys. I have an impression that Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst, and myself are des- tined to be better, or worse, acquainted." I 31 ) CHAPTER III. MATT MAKES HER FIEST APPEAEANCE. " EuEEKA ! 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. 32 MATT. peering round the corner of my white sun- shade, a pair of large eager eyes — fixed, not upon me, but upon the canvas I waa 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 MATT MAKES EER FIBST APPEARANCE. 33 a boy. The young person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a coloured woollen shawl or scarf thro-wn over 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 snule was so bright and good-humoured that I found myself answering it with a friendly nod. " ' How are you 1 ' 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 1 ' I said. * I mean, where do you live ? ' "Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across the lake in D 34 MATT. 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 1 ' " ' 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,' 1 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. MATT MAKES EER FIRST APPEARANCE. 35 " ' But of course he's a relation ? ' "Another shake of the head. " ' But you belong to him ? ' I said, con- siderably puzzled. ' Where were you born ? ' "'I wasn't bom 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 thai 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 undisguiseti euriosity. Presently she glanced again at me^ 36 MATT. " * I know what this is/ she cried, point- ing. ' 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 1 They're sheep.' "'Pray, don't touch the paint,' I sug- gested, 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 occa- sion to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a free-and-easiness, not to say boldness, about her manner, tempered MATT MAKES EEB FIRST APFEARANCE. 37 though it was with gusts of bashfulness, which began to amuse me. " ' Can you paint faces 1 ' 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 Aber- glyn last summer, and he painted William Jones.' " 'Indeed V T said, with an assumption of friendly interest. " ' Yes ; I wanted him to paint me, but he wouldn't. He painted WUliam Jones's father though, along o' William Jones.' "This with an air of unmistakable dis- gust 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 38 MATT. was contagious, and sat down on tlie grass opposite to her. "*I tell you what it is,. Matt,' I said familiarly, ' J'll paint you, though the other painter chap wouldn't.' "'You wilir 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 show- inff 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 arel' ** ' Fifteen/ she replied without hesitation. UATT MAKES EEB FIRST APPEABANCE. 39 " ' 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 cate- gorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry untU 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 any- thing 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, 40 MATT. 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 1 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 arrange- ments, my culinary implements, evexything 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. MATT MAKES HER FIRST APPEARANCE. 41 " ' Should you like to live in a house like this 1 ' I asked encouragingly. " She shook her head with decision. " * Why not 1 ' 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 pencU 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 gentle- man in a skuU cap, copied from some Eem- brandtish picture I had seen abroad. " ' I know who this is 1 ' she exclaimed. ' It's William Jones's father 1 ' " I assured her on my honour that William Jones's father was not personally known to Missing Page Missing Page . 44 MATT. as I approached her, and I recognized my new acquaintance. " I cannot 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 ex- MATT MAKES EEB FIRST APPSARANCE. 45 plained, "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, hypocriti- cally. ' Where did you buy it 1 ' " ' 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 saUor 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 46 MATT. 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