About this time Matt noticed a curious change come over her artist
friend. He was more thoughtful, and consequently less entertaining.
Often when she appeared and began chatting to him about affairs in which
she thought he might take some interest, she had the mortification not
merely of eliciting no reply, but of finding that he had not heard a
word of her conversation.
Now this style of proceeding would certainly have caused her some
annoyance, but for one compensating fact, which put the balance entirely
on the other side. It was evident that, despite the change, Brinkley’s
interest in Matt was not lessening, nay, it rather seemed to be on
the increase, and this fact Matt, very woman as she was, was quick to
perceive.
Very often, on looking suddenly at him, she found his eyes fixed
wonderingly and sympathetically upon her. She asked him on one occasion
what he was thinking about.
“_You_, Matt,” he answered promptly. “I was trying to imagine,” he
continued, seeing her blush and hang her head, “how you would look in
silks and velvets; got up, in fact, like a grand demoiselle. What would
you say, now, if a good fairy were to find you out some day, and were
to offer to change you from what you are to a fine young lady--would you
say Yes?”
Matt reflected for a moment, then she followed her feminine instinct,
and nodded her head vigorously.
“Ah!--by the way, Matt, can you _read?_”
“Print, not writing.”
“And write?”
“Just a bit.”
“Who taught you? William Jones?”
“No, that he didn’t. I learned off Tim Pensera down village. William
Jones, he can’t read and he can’t write; no more can William Jones’s
father.”
“This last piece of information set the young man thinking so deeply
that the rest of the interview became rather dull for Matt. When she
rose to go, however, he came out of his abstraction, and asked her if
she would return on the following day.
“I don’t know--p’raps!” she said.
“Ah,” returned the young man, assuming his flippant manner, “you find
me tedious company, I fear. The fact is, I am generally affected in this
manner in the present state of the moon. But come to-morrow, Matt.
Your presence does me good.” However, the next day passed, and the next
again, and there was no sign of Matt. He began to think that the child
had taken offence, and that he would have to seek her in her own home,
when her opportune appearance prevented the journey. He was taking
his breakfast one morning inside the caravan, when he suddenly became
conscious that Matt was standing outside watching him.
“Oh, you are there, are you?” he said coolly. “Come in and have some
breakfast, Matt.”
He rose negligently, went to the door, and held forth his hand; Matt
took it, gave one spring, and landed inside the vehicle.
“Tim, another knife and fork for the young lady--some more eggs and
milk; in fact, anything you’ve got!” said Brinkley, as he placed a seat
for Matt at the little table.
Tim gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. This “bold colleen,” as he called
her, was becoming too much for him; but he perforce obeyed his master’s
commands. Matt sat down and ate with an appetite; Brinkley played
negligently with his knife, and watched her.
“It is two days since you were here, Matt,” said he. “I was seriously
thinking of coming to look for you. Why wouldn’t you come before?”
“’Twasn’t that!” said Matt. “I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t? Why?”
“Why, _he_ wouldn’t let me, William Jones. He says he’ll smash me if I
come here and talk to you.”
As Matt spoke, her bosom heaved and her eyes flashed fire.
“He ain’t at home to-day,” she said, in answer to the young man’s query
concerning the ex-wrecker; “he’s gone up to market town, and won’t be
back before night.”
As Brinkley looked at her, a sudden thought seemed to strike him.
“Matt,” he said, “you and I will go wreck-hunting this afternoon; that
is, if you’ve no objection.”
She certainly had none: wherever he went she seemed willing to follow.
In a very little while the two had started off. It was Brinkley who led
this time, Matt walking along beside him like a confiding child.
“By the way, Matt,” he said presently, “you told me once of treasures
being hidden amongst the sand-hills. Did anybody ever find any?”
“Not that I know on.”
“William Jones, for instance?”
“No. Leastways, _I_ don’t know.”
“Well, what would you say, Matt, if I told you that _I_ had found one?”
“_If you?_”
“Yes. I wonder if you can keep a secret? Yes, on reflection I think you
can. Now, before we go any further, Matt, first you place your hand in
mine, and promise never to mention until I give you permission what I am
about to confide in you.”
Matt’s curiosity was aroused.
“All right,” she replied eagerly, “_I_ shan’t tell.”
“Very good,” replied Brinkley. “We will now proceed.”
They passed on amongst the sand-hills, and came to the entrance of the
cave. Brinkley removed the stones and sand from the hole, and entered.
Breathless with curiosity, Matt followed. They reached the bottom.
Brinkley struck a light, and pointed out to her all the wonderful
treasures which the cave contained. It was such a surprise to the girl
that for a time she could do nothing but stare and stare in speechless
wonder. Whistling gaily, Brinkley turned about the casks of rum and
brandy, and thrust his hands into the bags, and let the gleaming gold
slip through his fingers.
Matt’s amazement turned into awe.
“Don’t,” she said, in a fearful whisper; “it belongs to the fairies.”
Brinkley laughed.
“It belongs to a very substantial fairy, Matt; but I don’t think that
to-day I will mention that fairy’s name. Did you ever see so much, money
in all your life before, Matt?”
She shook her head, but her eyes were still fixed upon the gold.
“I see,” observed Brinkley flippantly, “the sight of that gold
fascinates you. Well, so it did me at first; but you see what use
does. I can regard it now with comparative calmness. However, I have a
particular wish to accustom _you_ to the sight of wealth; therefore I
shall bring you here and show you this now and again. Come, Matt, tell
me what you would do if you were very rich--if all this flotsam and
jetsam, in fact, belonged to you.”
Without the slightest hesitation Matt replied--
“I should give it to _you_--leastways, half of it.”
“Ah! the reply is characteristic, and clearly shows you are not at
present fitted to become the possessor of riches. But I shall bring you
to the proper state of mind in time, no doubt. The next time I ask you
a similar question you will propose to give me a third, the next an
eighth, and so on, until you will finally come to a proper state of
mind, and decline to give me any at all. And now that I have made you
the sharer of my secret, we will go.”
They left the cave once more, and made their way back across the
sand-hills, Brinkley pausing to obliterate their footprints as they
went. When they had proceeded some distance he paused, and took the
girl’s hand.
“Good-bye, Matt,” said he. “If it wasn’t for that promised thrashing, I
should certainly see you home.”
“Then do,” returned Matt. “I don’t care if he _does_ smash me!”
“Probably not; but I do. It would be an episode in your career which
it would not be pleasant to reflect upon--therefore, goodbye, Matt,
and--and God bless you, my girl!”
He gave her a fatherly salute upon the forehead; a bright flush
overspread her cheek as she bounded away. Brinkley watched her until
she was out of sight, then he turned, and strolled quietly on in the
direction of the caravan.
“It’s a strange game,” he said, “and requires careful playing. I wonder
what my next move ought to be?”
He thought very deeply, but when he reached the caravan he found he had
come to no definite conclusion as to his plans. He therefore partook
cheerfully of the repast which Tim had prepared for him; and after he
had smoked a couple of pipes in the open air, he retired to rest.
The next morning he began pondering again.
“I have got my trump card,” he said to himself, “but how to play up to
it? I have a splendid hand, but it will want skilful playing if I am
to win the game. One false move would do for me, for my opponents are
crafty as foxes, and they are two against one. What is my right move, I
wonder? I wish some good fairy would guide me!”
He took out his pipe, which was his usual consoler, and smoked while he
took a few turns on the green sward outside the caravan.
Suddenly an idea struck him.
“I think I’ll pay a domiciliary visit to Mr. Monk,” he said. “I can
meet him now on pretty equal terms. If I hint a few things to him, the
amiable gentleman may think of becoming just.”
He called up Tim, and sent him on some trivial errand down to the
village. As soon as he was well out of the way, Brinkley entered the
caravan, produced some papers from the inner pocket of his coat, and
locked them up securely in his trunk.
“So far so good,” he said. “My amiable friend may not be in an amiable
mood, and I don’t wish him to get any advantage of me!”
He did not even take with him the key of the box, but having attached to
it a small piece of paper, on which were some written instructions, he
hid it in the caravan, and started off upon his journey.
It was a dark, gloomy morning, giving every promise of coming storms. As
he passed through the wood which surrounded Monkshurst House, the wind
whistled softly among the trees, making a moan like the sound of human
voices.
“A gloomy place,” said Brinkley; “a fit residence for such as he. Any
dark deed might be committed here, and who would know?”
The path which he followed was a neglected carriage-drive, strewn with
stones, overgrown with weeds, and bordered on either side by the thick
trees of the forest. Presently the trees parted, and he came in view of
the house.
A large gloomy-looking building, as neglected as the woodland in the
centre of which it stood. It seemed as if only part of it was inhabited,
and the large garden at its back was unprotected by any wall, and full
of overgrown fruit trees.
The door was opened by a grim elderly woman. He inquired for Mr. Monk,
and was informed that he was at home. The next minute he was standing
in a lonely library, where the owner of the house was busy writing. Monk
rose, and the two stood face to face.