Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1885-06-19
COME ASHORE
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
a [ Concluded from last aoeek.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CARAVAN nTCA ppEAPC

CHAPTER XIV.
THE CARAVAN DISAPPEARS.
Several days passed away, during which
William Jones showed a strange and signifi-
can't affection for his own freside. Ne went
out a little in the sunlight but directly night
came he locked and barricaded the door as if
against thieves, and declined, on any induce
ment to cross the threshold. Even had a
three-decker gone ashore in the nelghbor-
hood, he would have thought twice before is
suing forth into the dreaded darkness
For William Jones was genuinely afraid;
his hereditary calm of mind was shaken, NOT
so much with horror at a murderous deed, as
with CONSERVATION that his lifelong secret
had been discovered by one man, and might,
sooner or later, be discovered by Others He
did not put implicit faith even in Monk; it
was his nature to trust nobody where money
was concerned.
As to returning back to the cave until he
had quite recovered his equanimity was quite
out of the question. Even by daylight he
avoided the spot with holy horror. Only
in his Dreams which were dark and troubled,
did he visit ito see the face of the murdered
man in the darkness, and the hand of the
murdered man pointing at him with cold, de-
caying finger.
The day after the murder he had been
greatly unsettled by a visit from Tim Linney,
who demanded news of his master, and said
that he had not returned to the caravan all
night. Tim seemed greatly troubled, but
gave vent to no very violent ebullitions of
grief When he was gone Matt sat by the
Preside, and looked long and keenly at William
Jones. ..
'What are you staring atg' cried he, fdget-
ing uneasily under her gaze.
''Nowt," said Matt; 81 were only wonder
ing"
s'Then don't go wondering" excl aimed the
good man, rather jnconsistently. "You mind
your own business, and don't be fool"
And he turned testify and gazed at the fire.
But Matt, whose eyes were full of a curious
light, was not to be abashed
CANT you well, William Jones?' she asked.
''I'm well enough am"
otis queer, amt it, that the painter chap
never come home?"
''How. should I knowg' growled William.
Maybe he's gone back to where he come
FROM
Cor maybe he's drownded? Or maybe
sum1nat else has happened to hima" suggested
Matt.
'Never you mind him, my gal. He's all
right, never fear. And if he amt, it's no
affair O. yours, OF mine neither. You go
along out and play"
Matt went out as directed, and it was some
hours before she returned. She found her
guardian seated in his old place by the fire,
looking at vacancy He started violently as
she entered, and made clutch at the rude
piece of ships iron which served as a poker.
"Be it you, Malta Lor', how you startled
mel [ were-I were-taking doze."
''Tve been up yonder," said Matt.
Cup wbeer!'
sSUp to the painter chaps cart. He amt
come back; and the man is searchin' for him
all up and down the place"
Fortunately it was very dark, SO that she
could not see the expression Of her hearers
face. She walked to the fireplace, and, tax
ing box of lucifers from a ledge, began
to procure light, with the view of igniting
the rushlight fixed to the table. But in a
moment William blew out the match and
snatched the box from her.
"What are you dom OFF, he cried. "Wast-
| ing the matches, as if they cost nowt. You'll
come to the workus afore you're done"
| The days passed, and there was no news Of
the absent man. Every day Matt went up
| to the caravan to make inquiries. At last,
one afternoon, she returned, looking greatly
UTOuUleu3 ueI eyes were Iou, 100, dS IL Suo
| had been crying.
''Whats the matter now?" demanded Will
liam, who had left his usual seat and was
standing at the door.
"Nowt," said Matt, wiping her eyelids with
the back of her hand
'Don't you tell no lies. You've heerd
stmmat. Stop! What's that theer under
| your arm?"
| All at once he had perceived that she car
ried a large, roll of something wrapped in
| brown paper. He took it from her, and
opened it nervously. It was the crayon por-
trait of herself executed by the defunct
| artist
| 'Who gave you this herea' cried William
Jones, trembling more than ever.
siTimn
| 'Who's he?'
"Him as come looking arter his master.
| The painter chap amt found; and now Tins
| going away in the cart to tell his friends
| And he give me this-my pictur' he give me
| it to keep. His master said were to have it;
| and I mean to keep it now he's dead"
| William Jones handed back the picture, and
| seemed relieved, indeed, when it was out of
| his hands.
| "Dead?" he muttered, not meeting MATHS
| eyes, but looking right out to sea. "Who
| told you he were dead?'
Matt did not reply, but gazed at William
SO long and SO significantly thatthe good man,
conscious of her scrutiny, turned and plunged
into the darkness of his dwelling.
An hour later a loud voice called him forth
| He went to the door, and there was Monk, of
Monkshurst. 1t was the first time they had
met since they parted on the night Of the
murder. Monk was dressed in dark sum-
mer suit, and looked unusually spick and
span.
'Wheres the girl?'' he cried, after whis-
pered colloquy of some minutes "Matt,
where are your
In answer to the call Matt appeared at the
door. No sooner did she perceive Monk than
she trembled violently, and went very pale.
"Come here, Matt" he said, with an insin-
uating smile. "See! I've brought some
4 thing for you--something pretty for you to
wear''
AS he spoke he drew from his waistcoat
pocket small gold ring, set with turquoise
stones But Matt still trembled, and shrank
away
81 don't want it'll shan't wear it," she
cried.
''Nonsense, Matt!'' said Monk. 'Why, it's
ring fit for lady. Come, let me put it on
your finger"
! So great seemed her agitation. SO deen her