The young man of the caravan was now thoroughly convinced that one of
two things must be true, either that William Jones had been instructed
to keep a watch upon him, or that he, William Jones, had a secret
of some sort which he was anxious not to have revealed. After both
suppositions had been duly weighed, the second was accepted as the most
likely; and it forthwith received the young man’s consideration.
If there was a secret, he argued, it was in some way connected, firstly,
with William Jones’s worldly prosperity; secondly, with the reports
current of treasure hidden in times past among the sand-hills or the
dangerous caverns of the sea. Was it possible, after all, that those
reports were true, and that in some mysterious manner Jones had become
acquainted with the hiding-place? It seemed very improbable for many
reasons, one of the chief being the man’s extreme poverty, which
appeared to touch the very edge of sheer starvation.
A little inquiry in the neighbourhood, however, elicited the information
that Jones, despite his abject penury, was certainly well-to-do, and
had money in the bank of the neighbouring market town; that the ruined
village of Abertaw belonged almost entirely to him; and that, in short,
he was by nature and habit a miserly person, who would prefer hoarding
up whatever he possessed to purchasing with it the commonest necessaries
of life.
An old coastguard, whom Brinkley found next day on the station, was his
chief informant.
“Don’t you believe him, sir,” said this old salt, “if he tells you he’s
poor. He’s a shark, William Jones is, and couldn’t own up even to his
own father. It’s my belief he’s got gold hidden somewheres among them
sandhills, let alone what he’s got in the savings bank. Ah, he’s a
artful one, is William Jones.”
Brinkley had said nothing of his own private suspicions, but had merely
introduced in a general way the subject of Jones’s worldly position.
Further conversation with Tim, who had made a few straggling
acquaintances in the district, corroborated the other testimony. The
young man became more and more convinced that William Jones was worth
studying.
Matt had not turned up that morning. Instead of looking after her,
Brinkley took another stroll towards the vicinity of the Devil’s
Cauldron. He had not gone far before he discovered that he was watched
again. The figure of William Jones followed in the distance, but keeping
him well in view.
It was certainly curious.
He walked over to the cliffs and looked down at the scene of yesterday’s
bathing adventure. A strong wind was blowing, and the waves were surging
up the rocks with deafening roar and foamy spume. The place looked very
ugly, particularly near the Cauldron. All the passage was churned to
milky white, and the sound from beneath was, to quote an old simile,
like the roar of innumerable chariots.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the head of William Jones eagerly
watching, the body being hidden behind an intervening rock.
“Strange!” he reflected. “My predatory friend can’t keep his treasure,
if he possesses any, down in that watery gulf. Yet whenever I come near
it his manner tells me that I am ‘warm,’ as they say in the game of hide
and seek.”
To test the matter a little further he set off on a brisk walk along the
cliffs, leaving the Cauldron behind. He found, as he had suspected, that
he was no longer followed. Returning as he came, and resuming his old
position, he saw William Jones immediately re-appear.
That day he discovered no clue to the mystery, nor the next, nor the
next again, though on each day he went through a similar performance.
Strange to say, Matt had not put in an appearance, and for reasons of
his own he had thought it better not to seek her.
On the morning of the third day--a dark chilly morning after a night of
rain--Tim put his head into the caravan, where his master was seated at
his easel, and grinned delightedly.
“Mr. Charles! She’s come, sor!”
“Who the deuce has come?” cried Brinkley.
“The _lady_, your honour, to have her picture taken. Will I show her
into the parlour?”
But as he spoke Matt pushed him aside and entered. She wore her best
clothes, but looked a little pale and anxious, Brinkley thought, as he
greeted her with a familiar nod.
“So you’ve come at last? Tim, get out, you rascal. I thought you had
given me up.”
He assumed a coldness, though he felt it not, for he had made up his
mind not to “encourage” the young person.
“I couldn’t come before--they wouldn’t let me. But last night William
Jones he didn’t come home, and I broke open the box and took out my
clothes, and ran straight off here.”
Her face fell as she proceeded, for she could not fail to notice the
coolness of the young man’s greeting.
“Well, since you _have_ come, we’ll get to work,” said Brinkley. “It’s
chilly and damp outside, so we’ll remain here in shelter.”
Matt took off her hat, and then proceeded to divest herself of her
coarse jacket, revealing for the first time the low-necked silk dress
beneath. Meantime the young man placed the sketch in position. Turning
presently, he beheld Matt’s transformation.
Old and shabby as the dress was, torn here and there, and revealing
beneath glimpses of coarse stockings and clumsy boots, it became her
wonderfully. As a result of much polishing with soap and water her face
shone again, and her arms and neck were white as snow. Thus attired,
Matt looked no longer a long shambling girl, but a tall, bright,
resplendent, young lady.
It was no use. Brinkley could not conceal his admiration. Matt’s arm
alone was enough to make a painter wild with delight.
“Why, Matt, you look positively magnificent. I had no idea you were so
pretty.”
The girl blushed with pleasure.
*****
The young man worked away for a good hour and a half, at the end of
which time he put the finishing touch to the sketch.
“_Finis coronat opus!_” he cried. “Look, Matt!”
Matt examined the picture with unconcealed delight. It was herself, a
little idealized, but quite characteristic, and altogether charming.
“May I take it home?” she asked eagerly.
“I’ll get you to leave it a few days longer. I must get a frame for it,
Matt, and then you shall have it all complete. Now, let me look at you
again,” he said, taking her by both hands and looking up at her sunny
face. “Are you pleased? Will you take care of the picture for the
painter’s sake?”
Matt’s answer was embarrassing. She quietly sat down on his knee, and
gave him a smacking kiss.
“Matt! Matt!” he cried. “You mustn’t!”
But she put her warm arm round his neck, and rested her cheek against
his shoulder.
“I should like to have pretty dresses and gold bracelets and things, and
to go away from William Jones and to stay with _you_.”
“My dear,” said Brinkley, laughing, “you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be
proper.”
“Why not?” asked Matt simply.
“The world is censorious little one. I am a young man, you are a young
lady. We shall have to shake hands soon and say good-bye. There, there,”
he continued, seeing her eyes fill with tears, “I’m not gone yet. I
shall stay as long as I can, only--really--you must look upon me as
quite an old fellow. I _am_ awfully old, you know, compared to you.”
He gently disengaged himself, and Matt sat down on a camp stool close
by. Her face had grown very wistful and sad, “Matt,” he said, anxious to
change the subject, “tell me something more about William Jones.”
“I hate William Jones. I hate everybody--but _you_.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I feel greatly flattered. But about the gentle Jones? You say he
was out all last night.”
Matt nodded.
“He goes out nigh every night,” she said, “and often don’t come home
till morning, Sometimes he finds things and brings ’em. He finds bits
o’ gold and old ropes and bottles o’ rum.”
“Very odd. Where?”
“He don’t tell; _I_ know.”
“I wish you’d tell me, Matt. Do, I have a particular reason for wanting
the information.”
“You won’t say I told? William Jones would be downright wild, he would.”
“I’ll keep the secret faithfully. Now.” Thus urged, Matt informed her
friend that on two occasions, out of curiosity, she had followed her
guardian on his nightly pilgrimages, and watched him go in the direction
of the Devil’s Cauldron. On both occasions the night was very dark. On
getting clear of the coastguard station, and among the sand-hills, Jones
had lighted a lantern which he carried. Trembling and afraid, she had
followed the light along the cliffs, then out among the sand-hills.
But all at once the light and its bearer had disappeared into the solid
earth, leaving her to find her way home in terror.
The explanation of all this was, in Matt’s opinion, very simple. William
Jones was a bad man, and went to “visit the fairies.”
“Yes,” she cried, “and every time he goes the fairies give him summat,
and he brings it home.”
“Each time you followed him,” asked Brinkley, thoughtfully, “he
disappeared at about the same place?”
“Yes,” said Matt, “and the light and him sunk right down and never come
up again.”
* * * * *
The result of the information thus communicated was to leave the young
man of the caravan far more curious than ever. He determined to turn the
tables on William Jones, and to watch his movements, not in the daytime,
but during the summer night, waiting for his appearance in the immediate
neighbourhood of the Devil’s Cauldron.
The first night he saw nothing--it was stormy, with wild gusts of rain.
The second night was equally uneventful. Nothing daunted, he went for
a third and last time, and lay in the moonlight on the cliffs, looking
towards the village.
The night was dark and cloudy, but from time to time the moon came out
with sudden brilliance on the sea, which was gently stirred by a breeze
from the land.
He waited for several hours. About midnight he rose to go home. As he
did so he was startled by the sound of oars, and lying down perceived a
small boat approaching on a silver patch of moonlit sea.
The moon came out, and he saw that the occupant of the boat was a
solitary man.
It approached rapidly, making direct for the Devil’s Cauldron. Lying
down on his face and peeping over, Brinkley saw it stop short just
outside the foaming passage, while the man stood up, stooped, lifted
something heavy from the bottom, and threw it overboard. Then, after
watching for a moment a dark object which drifted shoreward, right into
the Cauldron, he rowed away until he reached a sheltered creek close
to the scene of the swimming adventure. Here he ran the boat ashore and
leapt out.
The next minute Brinkley heard him coming up the cliffs, trembling with
excitement he lay down flat on his face and waited. Presently the man
emerged on the top of the cliffs, within a few yards of Brinkley’s
hiding-place. Just then the moon flashed brightly out, and Brinkley
recognized him.
It was William Jones, carrying on his shoulders something like a loaded
sack, and dangling from his left wrist, a horn lantern.
He looked round once or twice and then hurried towards the sand-hills.
Brinkley followed stealthily. The moon now went in, and it became pitch
dark. Presently Jones paused, set down his load, and lit the lantern;
then he hurried on.
For fifty or sixty yards a coarse carpet of green sward covered the
cliffs; then the sandhills began. Passing over the first sand-hill,
Jones disappeared. Quick as thought the young man followed, and, peering
over, saw the light in the hollow beneath; it rose higher and higher
till it reached the top of the next sand-hill, where it paused. Crawling
on hands and knees Brinkley slipped down into the hollow, and then
crept upward; halfway up the mound he found a huge rock, behind which he
crouched and peeped.
As he did so, William Jones, light in hand, seemed to dive down into the
solid earth and disappear.
For a minute after the disappearance, Charles Brinkley lay as if
petrified; and, indeed, he was altogether lost in wonder. What had
happened? Had an earthquake swallowed the mysterious one, or had he
tumbled down in a fit? Brinkley waited and watched, five minutes had
passed, ten minutes, and still the light did not re-emerge. At last,
overcome by his curiosity, Brinkley rose, and, stooping close to the
ground, crept from the rock behind which he had lain concealed, and
crawled across the summit of the sand-hill. Suddenly he stopped short,
and went down on hands and knees, for he now clearly discerned, coming
out of the solid earth or sand, the glimmer of the light.
It glimmered, then disappeared again. Just then the moon came out of her
cloud, illuminating the hillocks with vitreous rays; and he perceived
close by him a dark hole opening into the very heart of the hillock.
He crept closer and looked down, but could see nothing. He held his head
over the hole and listened; all he heard was a dull, hollow moaning,
like the sound of the sea. The light of the moon, however, enabled him
to perceive that the hole had been covered with a loose piece of wood,
or lid, about four feet square, and with an iron ringbolt in the
centre, which lid was now lying by the side of the opening, ready to
be replaced. A number of large pieces of stone, such as were strewn
everywhere about the sand-hills, lay piled close by.
He lay for some time waiting and listening. All at once, far behind him,
the light glimmered again. Quick as thought he rose and crept away, only
just in time; for he had no sooner regained the shelter of the rock, and
crouched there watching, than he saw the light re-emerge, accompanied
by a human head; a human body followed, and then he clearly discerned
William Jones-standing in the moonlight without the burthen he had
previously carried, and holding in his hand a lantern.
Setting the lantern down, William busied himself for several minutes,
and finally, having concluded the work on which he was engaged,
extinguished the light. Then, after glancing suspiciously round him on
every side, he walked rapidly down the sand-hill, and disappeared in the
direction of the sea.
Not until he distinctly heard the splash of oars, and saw the black
silhouette of the boat pass out from the shadow of the rock on to the
moonlit sea, did Brinkley again begin to stir; and even then he did
so very cautiously, lest his figure should be perceived against the
moonlight by the lynx-eyed rower.
Creeping on hands and knees, he again crawled to the mysterious spot,
and found, as he had indeed anticipated, that the hole was covered up,
and the wooden lid or trapdoor so carefully covered with stones and
loose sand as to be completely hidden.
His first impulse was to displace the _debris_, and at once to explore
the mysterious place; but reflecting that he was unprovided with lights
of any kind, and that the cavity below would most certainly be in
total darkness, he determined to postpone his visit of inspection until
daylight. By this time there was no sight or sound of the boat. Rising
to his feet, he mused. It was all very well to talk of returning
another time, but how was he to find the spot? The sea of sandy hillocks
stretched on every side, and he knew by experience how difficult it
was to distinguish one hillock from another. As to the cairns of loose
stones, such cairns were nearly as numerous as the hillocks themselves.
At last he thought of the rock where he had first concealed himself.
Such rocks were numerous, too; but pulling out his ease of crayons,
he marked the base of the rock with a small streak of colour. Finally,
remembering that the drift sand might cover this mark so made, he drew
out his penknife, and made a large cross in the hard sand. Having taken
these precautions, he made the best of his way down to the cliffs, and
following the open green sward which fringed the crags, made the best of
his way home to the caravan.
At daybreak the next day he strolled back along the crags, first taking
a bird’s-eye view of the village; and perceiving no sight of William
Jones, who had doubtless no suspicion that he would rise so early, he
soon found the spot where he had stood overnight, watching the approach
of the boat; and first reconnoitring the neighbourhood, struck off among
the sand-hills. At first he was guided by footprints, but as the sand
grew harder, these disappeared. At length, after a somewhat bewildering
search, he found the sandhill he sought, the rock with his mark upon it,
the cross marked in the ground, and finally, the well-concealed mouth of
the hole.
He looked keenly to right and left. No one was visible. Stooping down
he displaced the stones and loose sand, and disclosed the trap-door with
its iron ring. A long pull, a strong pull, and up came the trap. Open
Sesame! Behind him was a dark cavity, with a slanting path descending
into the bowels of the earth.
Anxious to lose no time, he squeezed himself through the aperture, and
began descending. While he did so he heard the hollow roaring he had
heard the night before. As he proceeded he drew out a box of matches
and a candle, which he lit. Proceeding cautiously on his back, and
restraining himself with his elbows from too rapid descent, he found
himself surrounded not by sand, but by solid rock, and peering downward,
saw that he was looking down into a large subterranean cave.
Just beneath him was a flight of steps cut in the solid. Descending
these carefully, for they were slippery as ice, he reached the bottom,
and found it formed of sea-gravel and loose shells, forming indeed a
decline like the sea-shore itself, to the edge of which, filling about
half the cavern, the waters of the sea crept with a long monotonous
moan. Approaching the water’s edge he saw facing him the solid walls of
the cliff, but just at the base there was an opening, a sort of slit,
almost touching the waves at all times, quite touching them when the
swell rose, and through this opening crept beams of daylight, turning
the waves to a clear malachite green.
The mystery was now clear enough. The cave communicated directly with
the sea, but in such a way as to make an entrance for any large object
impossible from that direction.
Turning his back upon the water, and holding up the candle, he examined
the interior. The damp black rocks rose on every side, and from the
roof hung spongy weeds and funguses like those which are to be seen in
sunless vaults of wine, but piled against the inner wall was a hoard of
treasures enough to make a smuggler’s mouth water or turn a wrecker’s
brain.
Puncheons of rum and other spirits, bales of wool, planks of mahogany
and pine, oars, broken masts, coils of rope, tangles of running rigging,
flags of all nations, and other articles such as are used on ship-board;
swinging tables, brass swinging lamps, masthead lanterns, and hammocks;
enough and to spare, in short, to fit out a small fleet of vessels.
Lost in amazement, Brinkley examined this extraordinary hoard, the
accumulation doubtless of many years. All at once his eye fell upon a
large canvas bag, rotten with age, and gaping open. It was as full as it
could hold with pieces of gold, bearing the superscription of the mint
of Spain.
Oh, William Jones! William Jones! And all this was yours, at least by
right of plunder, upon the Queen’s sea-way; all this which, turned into
cash, would have made a man rich beyond the dreams of avarice, was the
possession of one who lived like a miserly beggar, grudged himself and
his flesh and blood the common necessaries of life, and had never been
known, from boyhood upward, to give a starving fellow-creature so much
as a crust of bread, or to drop a penny into the poor-box. Oh, William
Jones! William Jones!
The above reflections belong, not to the present writer, but to my
adventurous discoverer, the captain of the caravan.
As Brinkley proceeded on his tour of inspection, he became more and
more struck with wonder. Nothing seemed too insignificant or too
preposterously useless for secretion in that extraordinary ship’s
cavern. There were mops and brooms, there were holy-stones, there were
“squeegees,” there were canisters of tinned provisions, there were
bags of adamantine ship-biscuits, there were sacks of potatoes (which
esculents, long neglected, had actually sprouted, and put forth leaves),
there were ringbolts, there were tin mugs, and, lastly, _mirabile
dictu_, there were books--said books lay piled on the top of a heap of
sacks, and were in the last stage of mildew and decay. For what purpose
had they been carried there? Certainly not to form a library, for
William Jones could not read. As curiosity deepened, Brinkley opened
some of the forlorn volumes, covered with mildew, and full of hideous
crawling things. Most were in foreign tongues, but there were several
English novels half a century old, and a book of famous “Voyages,” also
in English. Near to them were several large paper rolls--ship’s charts,
evidently, and almost falling to pieces. And on the top of the charts
was a tiny Prayer-book, slime-covered, and dripping wet!
What possessed Brinkley to examine the Prayer-book I cannot determine,
but in after years he always averred that it was an inspiration. At
any rate, he did open it, and saw that the fly-leaf was covered with
writing, yellow, difficult to decipher, fast fading away. But what more
particularly attracted his attention was a loose piece of parchment,
fastened to the title-page with a rusty pin, and covered also with
written characters.
Fixing the candle on a nook in the damp wall, he inspected the
title-page, and deciphered these words:--
“Christmas Eve, 1864, on board the ship _Trinidad,_ fast breaking up on
the Welsh coast. If any Christian soul should find this book and these
lines where I place them, if they sink not with their bearer (on whom I
leave my last despairing blessing) to the bottom of the sea, or if God
in His infinite mercy should spare and save the little child” (the book
trembled in his hand, as he read. The writing went on): “I cast her
adrift in her cradle in sight of shore, on a little raft made by my own
hands. ’Tis a desperate hope, but He can work miracles, and if it is
His will, she may be saved. Attached to this holy book are the proofs of
her poor dead mother’s marriage and my darling’s birth. May she live
to inherit my name. Signed, Matthew Thorpe Monk, Colonel, 15th Cavalry,
Bengal.”
The mystery was deepening indeed! At last Brinkley thrust the book
and its contents into his pocket, and, after one look round, took the
candle, and made his way up the rocks, and out of the cave. When he
saw the light of day above him, he blew out the light, and crawled
up through the aperture. Then, standing on the lonely sand-hill, he
surveyed the scene on every side. There was no sign of any living soul.
Carefully, but rapidly, he returned the trap-door to its place, covered
it with the stones and liberal handfuls of loose sand, and walked away,
taking care, for the first hundred yards, to obliterate his footprints
as he went.