People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 47, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 May 1894 — MATT TALE OF A CARAVAN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

MATT TALE OF A CARAVAN

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN

CHAPTER XV.— Continued. At this moment Matt, looking bright as sunshine, leaped out of the caravan. “There’s my proof,” said Marshall. “Miss Monk, this amiable bridegroom of yours denies being concerned in tanning Mr. Charles Brinkley. Is he telling the truth?” Matt’s face darkened, and she looked at Monk with eyes of cordial detestation. “No,” she said; “he’s lying.” “Matt,” cried Monk, fiercely, “take *are! * “He’s lying,” she repeated, not heeding him. “I see him do it with my own two eyes, and I see William Jones helping him and looking on; they thought that no one was nigh, but I was. I was hiding behind them sacks and barrels in the cave.” Monk now felt that the game was almost up, for he was beset on every aide, and the very ground seemed opening under his feet. The wretched Jones, in a state bordering on frenzy, remained on his knees, wailing over his ruin. The two strangers, Lightwood and Marshall, looked on as calm but interested spectators. Matt, having delivered her home-thrust of accusation, stood and gazed into Monk’s lace with cool defiance. “It is a plot!” Monk cried, presently, “an infamous plot to ruin me! You have been tampering, I see, with this wild girl, whom you foolishly suppose kin to me by blood. Arrest me, if you please—l shall not take the trouble to resist, for I am perfectly innocent in this matter.” He added, while they looked at one another as if somewhat puzzled: “As to the girl’s relationship with my dead cousin, the very idea is absurd. Where are the proofs of her birthright?” “Here,” said a quiet voice. Monk turned his eyes and started back in wonder, while William Jones shrieked and fell forward on his face. Standing before them in the sunshine was—the reality or the semblance of—the murdered young man of the caravan!

CHAPTER XVL THE “MUBDEHED” MAM. Yes, it was the artist himself, looking a little pale and carrying one arm in a sling, but otherwise, to all appearance, in good health. Monk had strong nerves, but he sould not preVent himself from uttering a wild cry of horror and wonder. At the same moment Matt went to the young man’s side, and, with an air of indescribable trust and sweetness, took his hand—the hand which was free—and put it to her lips. “The proof is here,’ he said, calmly; “here upon my person. lam not quite dead, you see, Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst, and I thought I should like to oring it to you myself. It consists, as you are aware, of Col. Monk’s dying message, written on the fly-leaf of his prayerbook, and of the marriage certificate of his wife, both these having been placed upon his child’s person, concealed by the unsuspecting and illiterate Jones, and found by me after a lapse of many years.” Monk did not speak; his tongue was frozen. He stood aghast, opening and shutting his clinched hands spasmodically and shaking like a leaf. Keassured to some extent by the sound of the voice, unmistakably appertaining

to a person of flesh and blood, William Jones gradually uplifted his face and looked in ghastly wonder at the speaker. “You will be anxious to ascertain,” proceeded Brinkley, with his old air of lightness, “by what accident, or special Providence, I arose from the grave in which you politely entombed me? The explanation is very simple. My young friend here, Matt, the foundling, or, as I should rather call her, Miss Monk, of Monkshurst, came to my assistance, attended to my injuries, which were not so serious as you imagined, ana enabled me before daybreak to gain the kindly shelter of my caravan. Tine and a certain rural doctor did the rest. \am Borry to disappoint you, Mr. Monk, but I felt bound to keep my promise—to interfere aerioualy with your little arrangements if

jam persistently refused to do Justiwa to this young lady.” As he spoke, Monk uttered a savage oath and rushed towards the road; but M arshall was after him in a moment and sprang upon him. There was a quick struggle. Suddenly Monk drew a knife, opened it and brandished it in the air; so that it would have gone ill with his assailant if the herculean Tim, coming to the rescue, had not pinioned him from behind. In another moment the knife was lying on the grass and Monk was neatly handcuffed by the detective. “Now, governor, you’d better take it quietly!” said Marshall, while Monk struggled and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. “You’re a smart one, you are, but the game’s up at last.” Monk recovered himself and laughed fiercely. “Let me go! Of what do you accuse me? It was murder just now, but since the murdered person is alive (d —n him!) I should like to know on what charge you arrest me.” “Oh, there’s no difficulty about that!” said Brinkley, looking at him superciliously. “In the first place you have by fraud and perjury possessed yourself of what never legally belonged to you. In the second place, you attempted murder, at any rate. But upon my life, I don’t think you are worth prosecuting. I think, Mr. Marshall, you might let him go.” * “Its letting a mad dog loose, sir,” replied Marshall. “He’U hurt somebody.” “What do you say, Miss Monk?” said Brinkley. “This amiable looking person is your father’s consin. Shall I release your bridegroom in order that you may go with him to the altar of Hymen and complete the ceremony?” “I hate him!” cried Matt; “I should like to drown him in the sea." Brinkley laughed. “Your sentiments are natural, but un-Christian. And the gentle Jones, now, who is looking at you so affectionately, what would you do with him? Drown him in the sea too?”

“No, no, Matt,” interposed; William Jones, abjectly; “speak up for me, Matt. I ha’ been father to yon all these years.” Matt seemed perplexed what to say. So Brinkley again took up the conversation. “On reflection we will refer William Jones to his friends, the ‘coast-guard chaps.’ I think he will be punished enough by the distribution of his little property in the cave. Eh, Mr. Jones?” Jones only wrung his hands and wailed, thinking of his precious treasure. “And so, Matt,” continued Brinkley, “there will be no wedding after all. I’m afraid you’re awfully disappointed!” Matt replied by taking his hand again, raising it to her lips, and kiss-

ing it fondly. The young man turned his head away, for his eyes had suddenly grown full of grateful tearsCONCLUSION. My tale is told. The adventure of the caravan has ended. Little more remains to be said. Monk, of Monkshurst, was not brought to trial for his iniquities, but he was sorely enough punished by the loss of his ill-gotten estates. Before the claim of the foundling was fully proved he left England never to return. Whether he is alive or dead I cannot tell.

William Jones, too, escaped legal punishment. A severer retribution came upon him in the seizure and disposal of the hoards in the great cave. So sorely did he take his loss to heart that he crept to his bed and had an attack of brain fever. When he reappeared on the scene of his old plunderings his intellect was weakened, and he showed curious evidences of imbecility. But the ruling passion remained strong within him. I saw him only last summer, rambling on the seashoro, talking incoherently to himself and watching the sea in search of wreckage as of old. And Matt? Well, her title to Monkshurst and the property was fully proved. For a long time she did not realize her good fortune, but gradually the pleasant truth dawned upon her in a sunrise of nice dresses, jewelry and plenty of money. Chancery stepped in like a severe foster parent and sent her to school. There she remained for several years; but Charles Brinkley, who had first taken in hand the vindication of her claims, ana who never ceased to be interested in her, saw her from time t<> time and took particular note of her improvement in her grammar and in the gentle art of speech. “Matt,” he said, when they met last Christmas in London, and when he saw before him, insteady of a towsy girl, as bright and buxom a young lady as ever wore purple raiment and fine linen, “Matt, you are ‘growed-up’ at last!” Matt b’ushed and hung her head, with a touch of the old manner. “Yes, I am grown, as you say. I wonder what William Jones would think if ho saw me now.” “And if he noticed these pretty boots, Matt, and heard yon play the piano and prattle a little in French. Upon my word, it’s a transformation! Yon always were r> nice girl, though.” “Bo yon really think *aV" asked

X*tV ffhylj. “DM jam always thfim ■or’ “Certainly." “Even when I told yon I liked jam so much, and you told me *it wouldn’t do?’” It was Brinkley’s torn to blush now. It was clear that Matt, despite other changes, stUl retained her indomit able frankness. “Even then,” he replied, laughing. “But I say you were a precocious youngster. You proposed to m, you know!” “I know I did,” said Matt, “and it wasn't leap year then.” She added still more shyly; “But it’s leap year now!” Their eyes met. Both blushed more and more. “Matt, don’t! It won’t do, you know! Yes, I say so stiU. You’re a rich woman and I’m only a poor devil of a painter. Yon must marry some great sweU.” But Matt replied: “I shall never marry anyone but you!” “You won’t? Do you mean it?” “Of course I do.” He caught her in his arms. “My darling Matt—yes, I shaU call you by that dear name to the end of the chapter. You love me, then? I can’t believe it!” “I have loved you,” she answered, laughiDg,“‘ever since I first came—‘to be took!’ ” And she rested her head on his shoulder just as she had done in the old days when she wap an unsophisticated child of nature. “So there’s to be a wedding after all,” he said, kissing her. “Matt, I’ve an idea!” “Yes?” “When we marry suppose we arrange to spend the honeymoon in—a caravan!”

"I AM NOT QUITE DEAD, MR MONK, OF MONKSHURST.”

“SUPPOSE WE SPEND OUR HONEYMOON IN A CARAVAN.”