People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 March 1894 — MATT. A TALE OF A CARAVAN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

MATT. A TALE OF A CARAVAN

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

CHAPTER V.— Continued. “Shan't promise,” she said, “’cause I •hall go. My likeness ain’t took yet—he takes a time, he does. I’m going to put them things on to-morrow and be took again.” For a moment the light in his eyes looked dangerous, then he smiled and patted her on the cheek—at which caress she shrunk away. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Nothing,” said Matt. “I don’t like to be pulled about, that’s all.” “You mean you don’t like me?" “Don’t know. That’s telling.” “And yet you’re no cause to hate me. Matt, for I’ve been a good friend to you—and always shall, because I like you, Matt. Do you understand, I like you?” So anxious did he seem to impress this upon her that he put his arm around her waist, drew her towards him, and kissed her on the cheek, a ceremony he had never performed before. But Matt seemed by no means to appreciate the honor; as his lips touched her cheeks she shivered, and when he released her she began rubbing at the place as if to wipe the touch away. If Mr. Monk noticed action on the part of the girl, he deemed it prudent. to take no notice of it. He said a few more more pleasant things to Matt, and again patted her cheek affectionately, then he left the cottage, taking William Jones with him. Ten

minutes later William Jones returned •lone. “Where’s he?” asked Matt. “Meanin’ Mr. Monk, Matt —he be gone!” said William Jones. “Gone for good?” demanded Matt, impatiently. “No, he ain’t, Matt; he’ll be down here to-morrow, he will; and you’d best be at home!” Matt said nothing this time; she only turned away sullenly and shrugged her shoulders. “Matt,” said William Jones, presently. “Well?” '‘Mr, Monk seems uncommon fond of you, he do.” Matt reflected foi a moment; then •he replied: “I wonder what he's fond o’ me for, ■William Jones?” “Well, I dunno; ’cause he is, I suppose,” returned William Jones, having no more logical answer at his command. “Tain’t that,” said Matt; “he don’t love me ’cause I'm me, William Jones. There’s summat else, and I should just like to know what that summat is, I should.” William Jones looked at her, conscious that there was a new development of sagacity in her character, but utterly at a loss to understand what '•hat new development meant. CHAPTER VL ALSO CONCLUDES WITH A KISS. When Matt arose 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 Baid: “They’re put where you won’t find ’em. Look ye. now, Matt, you’d best be after doin' summat uueful than nmnin’ about after a painter chap I was clown on the shore this morning, and I seen heaps n* wood- you’d best get some of it afore night!” Matt gave a snort, but said nothing. A few minutes after her benign proWetor Uft the cottage, and a little as-

ter ha had disappeared Matt toaaed 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 that 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 Bound, 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 you? 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 wiU 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 began to carelessly 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 awhile 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. “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’ WiHiam ; 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 skeptical. “Well,” continued Brinkley, as he went on lightly touching 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, be has helped to support you all these years—you, who have no claim whatever upon him.” This was an enigma to which Matt I had no solution. < She said no more, I but Brinkley, while he continued hia | pain Ung, silently ruminated thuv

“It strikes bm this puzU weald b* worth unraveling if I could only find the key. Quero, 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 hillsand on the far-off sea is too tempting. I shall go for a walk, and you, if you are in the mood, shaH be my guide.” She evidently was in the mood, for she was on her feet in an instant. “AU right, master,” she said, “I’ll go-” “Very well Tim, bring forth some refreshment We wiU refresh the inner man and girl before we start.” Tim disappeared into the caravan. Presently he reappeared bearing a 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 weH, 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 tho other. Then he gave some orders to Tim, and they started off. As they had no particular object in view, they chose the pleasant 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 foot path 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 fuU well, and which soon brought them to the narrow foot path 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 foot path for some distance and had gained the greensward on the top of the cliffa, 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 recks 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. “lie'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 practicing 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 p&st 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 coast guards. They do say,” she added, mysteriously, “as there’s lots o’ things—gold and silver — hid among them sand hills. Before the coast guards come all the folk was wreckers, like William Jones, and they used to get what come ashore, and they used to liide 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 them sand hills is alius changing and shifting about, they are; though they know well

•aoegh the taxings to tbarsta M findin’ of ’em!” “I always thought William Jones was poor?” “So he is, he says!” replied Matt, “cause though he be alius foraging, h« don’t find much now ou account o’ them coast-guard 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 tc 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 Jonei 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; “perhape it's somewhere here about 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 tc 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, “1 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* 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 a rushlight on the table. “William Jones,” said she, “her* be the painter!” By the light of the flickering ruthlight Brinkley now looked about him. At a glance he noted some of the details of the queer little room; then hia eye fell upon the occupants, whom, from Matt’s description, he recognized as William Jones and the grizzly author of his being. [TO BB CONTINUED.]

AS HIS LIPS TOUCHED HER CHEEKS SHE SHIVERED.

MATT POINTED TO THE COTTAGE WHERE SHE LIVED.