The two men walked together through the darkness as far as the door
of William Jones’s hut; then they parted. Mr. Monk struck across the
sand-hills towards his own home, while Jones entered the doorway of his
cabin.
He would fain have found that cabin empty, for the memory of that last
scene in the cave was still upon him, and made him as nervous as a
child. But the old man was there, and wide-awake, and evidently pleased
at his son’s return.
“Where have you been, William dear?” said he. The question was innocent
enough in itself, but it was full of hidden meaning for William Jones.
“Where have I been?” he repeated; “at work to be sure!”
The tone of his reply startled the old man. He looked up, and saw to his
amazement that William was as white as a ghost, and trembling violently.
“What’s the matter, William, dear?” he asked eagerly. “Have ye seen a
wreck, my son?”
“No, I ain’t!” responded his son violently; “and look ye now, old ’un,
you jest be quiet, and let me alone, that’s all!”
The old man, knowing his son’s temper, did as he was told, and William
began to potter aimlessly about the room. He was certainly trembling
very much, and was almost overcome with a nervousness for which he
himself could not account. For he was no coward. To get possession of a
prize on the high seas he would have faced a storm which might well make
brave men tremble, not to mention that he knew that he had on more than
one occasion humanely hastened the end of shipwrecked sailors, whom he
had found and pillaged on the shore. After these acts he had been able
to sleep the sleep of virtue without being haunted by dead men’s eyes.
But now the case was different. He had not to deal with a victim without
friends, a man whose body, described as that of a “shipwrecked mariner,”
could be buried and forgotten without any more ado. In all probability
there would this time be a hue and cry, and William Jones trembled lest
his share in the ghastly business might ultimately be discovered.
True, he was not actually the culprit, and so, even at the worst, he
might escape the gallows--but to a man of his sensitive and affectionate
nature the thought of transportation was not pleasant. It was this that
made him nervous--this that made him start and tremble at every sound.
Presently a thought struck him.
“Where’s Matt?” he asked.
“Don’t know, William, dear; she ain’t been here for hours and hours.
Maybe she’s on the shore.”
“Maybe she is. I’ll go and have a look,” returned William.
It must not be supposed for a moment that William Jones had become
afflicted with a sudden and tender interest in Matt--he merely wanted
to get quit of the cabin, that was all, and he saw in this a reasonable
excuse for walking out alone. He accordingly made his escape, and went
wandering off along the shore.
It was ten o’clock when he returned; he was still pale, and drenched to
the skin. The old man was dozing beside the fire, and alone.
“Where’s Matt?” asked William again.
“Ain’t you seen her, William, dear? Well, she ain’t here.”
William Jones did look a little uneasy this time, and it is but due
to him to confess that his uneasiness was caused by Matt’s prolonged
absence. Erratic as she was in her movements, she had not been
accustomed to staying out so late, especially on a night when the rain
was pouring, and not a glimmer of star or moon was to be seen.
“Wonder what she’s doin’ of?” said William; “suppose I’d best wait up
for her.. Here, old man, you go to bed, d’ye: hear--_you_ ain’t wanted
anyhow.”
The old man accordingly went to bed, and William sat up to await Matt’s
return. He sat beside the hearth, looked into the smouldering fire,
and listened to the rain as it poured down steadily upon the roof.
Occasionally he got up, and went to the door; he could see nothing, but
he heard the patter of the falling rain, and the low dreary moan of the
troubled sea.
Hour after hour passed, and Matt did not come. William Jones began to
doze by the fire--then he sank into a heavy sleep.
He awoke with a start, and found that it was broad daylight. The fire
was out, the rain had ceased to fall, and the morning sun was creeping
in at the windows. He looked round, and saw that he was still alone. He
went into Matt’s room--it was empty. She had not returned.
He was now filled with vague uneasiness. He made up a bit of fire, and
was about to issue forth again in search of the truant, when all further
trouble was saved him--the door opened, and Matt herself appeared.
She seemed almost as much disturbed as William Jones himself. Her face
was very pale, her hair wild, her dress in great disorder. She started
on seeing him; then, assuming rather a devil-may-care look, she lounged
in.
“You’re up early, William Jones,” she said.
“Yes, I am up early,” he replied gruffly; “’cause why?--’cause I
ain’t been to bed. And where have _you_ been--jest you tell me that.”
“Why,--I’ve been out, of course!” returned the girl defiantly.
“That won’t do, Matt,” returned William Jones. “Come, you’ll jest tell
me where you’ve been. You ain’t been out all night for nothing.”
The girl gave him a look half of defiance, half of curiosity; then she
threw herself down, rather than sat, upon a chair.
“I’m tired, I am,” she said; “and hungry, and cold!”
“Will you tell me where you’ve been, Matt?” cried William Jones,
trembling with suspicious alarm.
“‘Course I will, if you keep quiet,” said the girl in answer. “There
ain’t much to tell neither. I were away along to Pencroes when the heavy
rain came on, then I lay down behind a haystack and fell asleep, and
when I woke up it was daylight, and I came home.”
William Jones looked at her steadfastly and long; then, as if satisfied,
he turned away. About an hour later he left the hut and walked along the
shore, straining his eyes seaward. But instead of looking steadfastly
at one spot, as his custom was, he paused now and again to gaze uneasily
about him. At every sound he started and turned pale. In truth, he
was becoming a veritable coward--afraid almost of the sound of his own
footsteps on the sands.