CHAPTER XV.--THE “MURDERED” MAN!

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 could 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. I am not quite dead, you see, Mr. Monk of Monkshurst, and I thought I should like to bring it you myself. It consists, as you are aware, of Colonel Monk’s dying message, written on the fly-leaf of his Prayer-book, 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 clenched hands spasmodically, and shaking like a leaf. Reassured 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, and enabled me, before daybreak, to gain the kindly shelter of my caravan. Tim and a certain rural doctor did the rest. I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Monk, but I felt bound to keep my promise--to interfere seriously with your little arrangements, if you persistently refused to do justice to this young lady.”

As he spoke, Monk uttered a savage oath and rushed towards the road; but Marshall 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 (curse 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.”

“It’s letting a mad dog loose, sir,” replied Marshall. “He’ll hurt somebody.”

“What do _you_ say, Miss Monk?” said Brinkley. “This amiable-looking person is your father’s cousin. 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 unchristian. 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 you 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 ‘coastguard 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, lifting it to her lips and kissing it fondly. The young man turned his head away, for his eyes had suddenly grown full of grateful tears.

CONCLUSION.

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 dispersal 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 sea-shore, 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, jewellery, 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, and who never ceased to be interested in her, saw her from time to time, and took particular note of her improvement in her grammar and the gentle art of speech.

“Matt,” he said, when they met last Christmas in London, and when he saw before him, instead 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 blushed and hung her head, with a touch of her old manner.

“Yes, I am grown up, as you say. I wonder what William Jones would think if he saw me now?”

“And if he noticed those pretty boots, Matt, and heard you play the piano and prattle a little in French. Upon my word, it’s a transformation! You always were a nice girl, though.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Matt, shyly. “Did you _always_ think so?”

“Certainly.”

“Even when I told you I liked you so much, and you told me ‘it wouldn’t do?”

It was Brinkley’s turn to blush now. It was clear that Matt, despite other changes, still retained her indomitable frankness.

“Even then,” he replied, laughing. “But I say, you were a precocious youngster. You _proposed_ to me, you know!”

“I know I did,” said Matt, “and it wasn’t leap year then”--she added still more slyly--“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 still. You’re a rich woman, and I’m only a poor devil of a painter. You must marry some great swell.”

But Matt replied--

“I shall never marry any one but _you!_”

“You won’t? Do you mean it?”

“Of course I do.”

He caught her in his arms.

“My darling Matt--yes, I shall 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, laughing, “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 was 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!”

THE END.