Dead Men's Dollars

Front matter

Copyright. Eutcml at Stationers' Hall Dead Mens Dollars BY MAY CROMMELIN AUTHOR OF "BROWN-EYES," " QUEENIE," " ORANGE LILY," ETC-, ETC. BRISTOL J. W. Arrowsmith, ir Quay Street LONDON Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 4 Stationers' Hall Court CONTENTS. Chapter. Page I. A lovers' TRYST I II. VILETTE ! 9 III. SHADOWS FALL ! l8 IV. A WILD AND WET OCTOBER NIGHT ... 28 V. BRUIN'S RESOLUTION 44 VI. "GOODBYE, DEAR LOVE, GOODBYE" ... 55 VII. SAILING OUT INTO THE WEST 71 VIII. "NOW THERE IS NO CHANCE LEFT " . . 87 IX. DEAD MEN'S DOLLARS 96 X. WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS YOUNG . . . I08 XI. THE SEA'S SECRET I 15 XII. IN PERILS OF THE SEA I28 XIII. THE LAST DAY'S WORK I4I XIV. HASTENING HOME I58 XV. THE OLD MAN'S GRAVE 173 xvi. "hist! come out" 183 XVII. THE DAWN OF A MARRIAGE MORN . . . I94 XVIII. TRIED FOR MURDER 207 XIX.

WANDERING WITH THE SWALLOWS . . . 223 XX. LAST YEAR'S NEST IS EMPTY 236 XXI. WHAT A LITTLE WORLD IT IS ! .... 253 XXII. " MAY I DIE FIRST ! " 275 XXIII. A STERN CHASE 2(8l XXIV. AT LAST ! gmtr UJen s Sollars.

Chapter I

a Xorers' Œtgst. one of the southern counties of |^^W|^^^| England lies a hamlet of red-brick IpSijpl^ cottages, with red-tiled roofs mel- PP^£\-^f lowed in colour by weather -stains and the slow growth of mosses. It glows in summer a bright patch of colour, relieving the green of the large sleepy pastures around, and peeps half hidden amidst the heavy headed foliage of the great hedgerow elms which abound in that part of the country. In winter it gleams from afar still more ruddily, seen with a foreground of ploughed brown fields, and between a framing of bare branches like a haze of delicate twig-tracery. And at this season its cheering hue suggests the friendly warmth as of a fire, of hospitable greeting, and good cheer. From spring to autumn these cottages are generally blooming in homely flowers, creeping up their walls, making gay a square plot down to the freshly-painted garden paling along the road.

Some of these small homes are two-storied and very re spectable : most are picturesque. The largest of all might be noticed as standing a little apart from the rest, at that end of the village nearest a park lodge. It could also boast being screened by a few evergreen bushes, notably one before its parlour window, which was clipped into the shape of something like a pawn with a bird or a beaver — as passers-by might fancy at their pleasure — on its head. This living ornament was called the " Cock and Bush " by the neighbours. A master-builder named Jones had dwelt in this cottage, a quiet man much respected thereabouts. His widow, once lady's-maid up at the great house, lived here still with her two daughters. The village lies on one side of the curving road, which is overshadowed opposite by the high rectory wall.

Close by, somewhat raised on a knoll, rises the old grey church, with its loud clock that marks the time to all dwellers in the sleepy brown farms close by or the red hamlet itself. From Farringford — for this is the name of the village — run several deep lanes, of which the steep red-sandstone banks are all burrowed high up with holes ; little Petras these, where the martins, a shy folk, have their rock-dwellings. Higher still, the tops of the banks are thick-edged with down-dropping fringes of long hart's-tongue ferns. The rest of the undulating land around lies mostly in green pastures, so thick-set with grandly-grown hedgerow or standard elms that it might all be one vast park but for its separating fences and hedgy banks. Behind the village, however, both meadows and tree-monarchs of the fields are surpassed by the greater woods and more open sweeps of a fine park, rising in gentle undulations to a high ridge, covered with noble oak trees and underwood.

A young man stood leaning against one of the largest oak trees here, on a warm hazy evening. He was tall and broad-shouldered; so that, in his rough shooting suit and knickerbockers, with a deerstalker's cap on his brown head, he was a pleasant even goodly figure to look at. His gun lay on the grass beside him, showing he had been after partridges ; for it was Sep tember, when the whole earth seems ripened, and to lie warmed and lazy, feeling that her year's work is done. Bernard Brandon was gazing before him, with his eyebrows slightly knitted, looking at one corner of an apparently fine old mansion that could just be seen through the trees of the park. 2 * His face showed perhaps few signs of intellectual power. It was a trifle broad, rather heavy about the jaw, and now tanned to a dusky red all over, for which tramping through the stubble was answer able.

Some men called him handsome, most women said he was ugly. He had an open forehead, though low, edged with thick brown hair. His eyebrows were dark and somewhat thick also, almost meeting when in thought as now ; and at such times a straight vertical furrow rose between them, deep beyond his years, — the sure indication of a resolute spirit. Bernard had a way of looking straight and full at anyone who addressed him ; and if puzzled at what was said, especially by a woman — for he had a simple mind — he knitted these shaggy eyebrows, giving himself a stern air of which he was unconscious. " Bruin " was his nickname at school : " Bruin " was the name his best friends still called him affec tionately to his face, and many people behind his back. For the rest, his grey-blue eyes were frank and honest in expression ; and when he laughed, as he often did with other men, there was a broad gleam of white ivory lighting up the lower part of his face, as pleasant to see as the boyish sound was to hear.

The few women of his own class in the country round thought Bernard rather a good bear. He was a thorough sportsman, and a capital fellow, so they heard from their husbands and brothers ; but he did not dance at the two yearly county balls, for waltzing made him giddy, and he had no small talk. Poor Bernard had an immense reverence for the gentler sex in the abstract ; but he felt happier out of their society in general, excepting that of all the poor rheumatic goodies in the parish, who blessed him as having the most tender heart they knew. But of other womankind he cared but for one woman on earth, and her — he worshipped. Bernard Brandon was the eldest son of one of the oldest families in the county. It was once one of the richest, too ; and his own grandfather lived here as master of this very park and great manor house, in which generations of Brandons had been born and bred, and at which poor Bernard now stood and stared.

But contested county elections were ruinous in olden days ; so was the Prince Regent's set. Extravagances and expenses accumulated ! It was an old story, almost forgotten by most of the neighbours, of how it all happened. But, finally, the estate was almost entirely sold, and passed into the possession of the family solicitor, whose son, mounting still higher in later years, at last attained the woolsack, and died a "law lord," leaving in turn the old estate and a new title to his heir. Bernard alone, perhaps, did not think the tale a dead one. It had still the most living interest for him. Even his father, now old and blind, had in his youth placidly accepted the fiat of Fortune, and retired to the little sheltered dower-house on the other side of the wooded hill ; where, on fewer hun dreds than the Brandons had formerly counted thousands, he lived quiet and contented.

Bernard's mother died in his babyhood. His pretty step mother, whom he had admired shyly even as a little boy, was dead also years ago. There were at home only his old father and his young step-brother Will, of whom Bernard was protectingly fond. Surely they must miss not having a sister, a woman rela tive — some gentler presence in the house — people surmised. Bruin said " No," a little awkwardly, but with a proud smile of satisfaction in his family circumstances. " Will is such a wonderful fellow ! He has such gentle ways, refined tastes, you know, and all that sort of thing; though he is a capital companion at the same time. It is as good as having both a brother and sister in one." Bernard had been sent to Eton and Oxford in spite of his father's altered fortunes. The latter simply remarked that, as he and his father and grandfather, and other Brandons before them, had always so been educated, he should be sorry for his lad to break the old tradition.

He denied himself a good deal, and said nothing about it — that was all. Then Bernard, who was by no means extravagant, though voted at Oxford a good fellow, came home when he was about three or four and twenty. At home he had lived quietly ever since. His old father needed him ; he was eyes to the blind man, and a constant companion. There was also a round of varied interest to him in their small farm : a good deal of rough sport to be had in the country. There were young pointers to be trained, the colt to be broken in. Bernard was now eight and twenty ; but when some of the neighbours asked him if he did not find his life dull, hinting their wonder he never went away for some six weeks or so, to amuse himself, and " see the world," he would only laugh, and reply, with a slightly awkward roll of his shoulders, as in unconscious deprecation of seeming hypocrit ical or over-virtuous : "Well — yes, some of these days.

But the old man rather wants me just yet, you see. When Will comes home from Oxford, it will be a different matter." But Will had come and gone, and still Bernard stayed. At first it was from dutiful good feeling, no doubt. Of late there was another cause. His whole being, soul and body, was possessed by one feeling, overshadowing all the rest. He loved pas sionately — and at this moment he was waiting for the object of his blind worship. He was staring at the home of his forefathers, but yet only saw in fancy her slender form as it might have flitted down yonder. This fair woman he so adored that, at moments in his love-haze, he seemed to himself to have been born only to serve and strive for her ; and humbly abide her will with quietly loving patience while his life should last, and — who knows ? even afterwards.

There was a slight rustle, a movement in the bushes near. Bernard, absorbed, did not heed. After a few waiting moments on the part of some one unseen, came a louder sound. It was, if one can imagine such a thing, like a bird-laugh. A faintly mocking, musical, low trill. Bernard started, thrilled all through him, and hastily turned. A face was peeping through the branches of some brushwood ; a little hand held them back. " Vilette ! "—he exclaimed.

Chapter II

Vilette ! ~ -'" ,~^T ILETTE : at last ! " repeated Bernard, i ? 0w£3k with an accent of tender reproach in -'.-". w ■ his tone of joyous fondness, whilst his "_-___-„.: - eyes turned to the half-hidden new comer with the wistful look of a humbly affectionate dog. " I thought you were not coming, after all." The face he looked at smiled, as might that of a child if so addressed. Its expression in so doing was a little mocking, but altogether innocent, limpid in its clear blue gaze, irresponsible for harm done. "Never was a human face more like that of an angel ! " thought Bernard, gazing thereon with a lover's most fervent admiration, so fatuous he could not move a step nearer, but feasted his eyes. Vilette's face was certainly rare. A bloom of rose and white complexion, with forget-me-not eyes, of which the appealing gaze grewT mesmeric at last in its influence.

A halo of golden hair, ruffled by the air, the head now framed in foliage ; tiny ears, each a little rondel exquisitely wrought and rounded ; and, lastly, a bewitching, small, red mouth, the lower lip pouting "as if a bee had newly stung it," the upper one delicately thin, passionless. Over all there was a gentle, slightly distraught expression. She seemed softly musing of the sky, the woods, the wild birds hopping in the bushes, anything rather than the ordinary small thoughts of human daily life. As she came slowly, with a pretty lingering reluct ance, out from her hiding-place to meet her lover, Vilette, even in a plain blue cotton gown, had some how rather the air of a wood nymph than of a village maiden. " You were looking at the Manor House down there. You were not thinking of me at all," she said low and sweet, yet with a little malice lurking under her gentleness.

Bernard's ears drank in evenintonation of her voice ; each simple word full-fraught with meaning and music to his worshipping mind. "But I was thinking of you, and only you!" he returned. " I never seem to think of anyone or anything else, now. Just to pass the time, I was trying to fancy what it would be if Farringford and the Manor House were ours again, and that you were reigning down there as mistress of all." The young man reddened as he spoke, at revealing this foolish inmost yearning of his heart ; but eyed Vilette to see that she exonerated him from all suspicion of having forgotten her. Vilette stood under the oak tree a few steps from him. She held a frond of golden-brown bracken in her hand like a regal wand. Her straw hat, hanging by its ribbon from her arm, was stuck round with fresh corn-flowers, as if she knew the old karole — ■ " Allez, allez, O jeunes gens Cueillir les bluets dans les champs.

She only replied enigmatically : " Well !— and now . . . ? " Brandon came slowly forward, with an appealing look on his sunburnt face of joy and love which yet wanted fuller satisfaction ; but as if he feared to offend. He would have put his arm round Vilette's supple waist, but that she drew away with slight horror. " No, no, Bruin — you dear, good bear ! Think if anyone should see you ! " " Who could see us ? No one ever passes here but one of the gamekeepers, perhaps once a month," said Brandon, rather doggedly, though he drew back in humble obedience. " Besides, what does it matter if they did ? Have I not told you often enough, that I shall be only too proud to acknowledge you to the whole world as my promised wife ? " " And have I not told you, I will not allow you to make such a sacrifice for me yet ?

" returned Vilette, quickly. " What ! the last heir of the Brandons engaged to a builder's daughter ; to a girl living in one of your own cottages ; whose sister, Sarah Jones, makes ugly dresses for the fat farmers' wives ? " "No matter," quoth Bernard, quietly. " If you were a beggar-maid, and I the King Cophetua, it would be all the same. You are the one woman on earth I love, and I only ask to be just your slave to make my happiness." Bernard looked a slave to be proud of as he spoke: his tall young figure stood so straight and strong as he leant with a rude grace on his gun, which he had picked up. The simple honesty and utter truth of his feeling gave a nobility to his sunburnt features, which Vilette recognised, though gazing at him as if dreamily and from a far-away land of innocence and passionless thoughts.

A brighter flush made glorious the marvellously fair rose and white of her complexion ; a vivid spark leaped a moment in her soft blue eyes — then was gone. " Come," said Bernard, persuasively. " Let us go down to the grotto in the river-walk. That is near your home, too." " No, no! " answered Vilette, shrinking back, while the flush died as quickly on her face. " There is no sunlight down in the river-walk ; and the grotto is as cold as a cell ; and the river goes creeping, creeping by. I don't like it there, Bruin. But there is a lovely spot I know near here. Come with me." " Fickle Vilette ! " so Bernard fondly chid her, as he shouldered his gun and went beside the girl. " Did I not see you twice, or oftener, in that very grotto, when I chanced to come down the river-walk? Why were you there, if you dislike the place ?

Answer me that." But Vilette no more thought of explaining than a child accused of whims in its choice of toys. She only smiled in Brandon's eyes, and murmured : " Yes. You did come down the walk, you see." They were going now towards a young larch wood, of which the infant trees were merely grown twice as high as Bernard's self, while their feathery branches almost interlaced. Vilette passed among them as if knowing every step of the ground, though no path was discernible. Her slight figure seemed to thread itself through the green maze of branches, as though they knew her, and parted of their own accord, but only to fly in Bernard's face as he sollowed. To him she was like the sylvan deity of this sun-kissed, solitary, little wood. As she walked Vilette now betrayed a slight limp, caused as a child by a neglected stiff knee.

In Bernard's eyes the little defect had a pathetic grace ; her gait was none the less that of a more ethereal being than any he had ever known. And this very quality, indeed, was part of Vilette's mysterious charm, for most men who saw her; even the most dull hedgers and ditchers acknowledged it. " Her was different like," to other girls of her class, was their slow verdict. For a few minutes Bernard dutifully followed his sovereign mistress. Then came clearer rising ground. The young larches had been thinned here by a great storm two years ago. Vilette slackened her pace, and looked back, with just the gleam of a sweetly demure smile — gone next instant as she turned her head again. Bernard was beside her at once. They went closely together and slowly now, though the path was wide. The sinking sun shone warm on the softly-tasselled larch-tops, and irradiated Vilette's head with a halo of golden hair.

Bernard bent his own brown head reverentially till his lips just rested on those light-brown tresses. It was as if he touched the nimbus of a saint. So drawing still nearer, and moving slower, the two figures at last seemed to mingle as they stood half in sun, half in shade. The sun was on their young heads, the shadows round their feet. Only some rabbits peeping through the furze saw their embrace. Perhaps a hawk too, sailing on steady wing aloft in the blue. "What a blessing life is — isn't it, Vilette? " were Bernard's deep-toned rather strange words as he held her face a little backwards, softly to gaze upon it with rapturous fondness after that kiss he had thought of and thirsted for all day. His eyes were shining wonderfully, lighted from within by the great passion which leaped like a high altar-flame in his heart.

To him the earth was all young and fair, and he and his love walked on it as happy as if it was now created first for them. And all life meant love; and love meant ever-youthful joy of heart and comfort in each other, and utter mutual trust, yea ! for always and always. "Dear Bruin," was Vilette's answer, with a slightly bewildered trouble on her face, causing her upper lip to rise a little piteously, while her eyes sought his in enquiry, "what is there in me that makes you look at me like that ? You almost frighten me at times." " Do I, Vilette ? Forgive me, dear. I am a rough bearish fellow, I know," said Bernard, with per plexed penitence. " But tell me, what have I done wrong ? Believe me, I never could mean to vex you in the smallest degree." "Oh, I know that!" cried Vilette, half laughing, half pouting.

" It is only — you can't help it. You look so terribly in earnest sometimes, so stern. . . Never mind ! Let us sit down here and be happy." Vilette sank lightly down on a little mound close by. Bernard couched himself full length at her feet, and looked at her. He had said truly, he could never bear to vex this girl he loved. No true knight of old was ever more loyally devoted to his lady's sovereign will ; more humbly proud to be her thrall. His reverence towards Vilette Jones was even so great that the country-girl laughed at times in her heart, half-vexed with him. Yet Vilette did care more deeply for this dark browed quixotic lover of hers, than she had ever done for other human being. And this in spite of her manner, half as of a child who knows not what love means ; or, in her more womanly moments, as of an airy nymph-like creature, belonging to nature, to woods and streams, as the birds do, and the darting glancing trout.

No trace of lower but common girlish moods dimmed the blue candour of her eyes, the bewitching sweetness of her smile. Few, if any, persons had ever seen Vilette angry ; she never looked hot, flustered, untidy. " No whiter soul ever walked the earth ! " thought poor Bernard, heaving a deep sigh now at thoughts of himself and what he was in comparison ; though his life had been no worse, rather better, than that of most young men. " What is the matter ? Are you not happy ? " Vilette murmured, bending towards him a little anxiously. " I am too happy — that is all, dear," replied Bernard. Then for half an hour these two talked in sub dued tones to each other, though there was no one nigh to hear them ; and were utterly happy. * * * *

Chapter III

Shadows ffall! :"^( Sv^lILETTE ! It is an odd name; but yet ■'? V '-'/J'-' I can hardly imagine you as having C|c/p| any other," said Bernard. IfjjjfrAA"" " It was my grandmother's name. She was a French governess who came over, I believe, and mother named me for her," was Vilette's reply. A governess ! — a lady's-maid would be nearer the truth. But such a white lie for the credit of the family was surely forgivable ; and Vilette Jones was a woman after all. Bernard began again : " Vilette ! I often wonder if you care for me really — just a little. Oh, yes, I know ! " (as the girl made a tender little movement of her head, as he now sat beside her. Bernard had been placing little bits of feathery grasses in her light-brown golden hair with half-shy, loving fingers. What a gladness it was to him to know that no man's hand had ever yet touched those tresses but his own now !

His name had been written first on the white page of her young heart. It was all so natural, though ; for Vilette was only eighteen, and he was her first wooer. If another man should come, later, who . . . Brandon stifled the horrible thought ; for, with a tightening of the muscles of his throat, he felt as if he must do murder upon such a rival.) " I do know ! " he went on. " You are fond of me ; but I have seen you a hundred times kiss your kitten just as fondly. I believe you love the kitten as well as you do me, after all." " Poor Kitsy ! I can be quite happy playing with it for hours, certainly," said Vilette with truth. Then her tone changed to one of low hesitating entreaty ; though, with her hands clasped round her knees, she looked away at the pearly evening sky. "Don't speak so, dear Bernard.

Only this very afternoon I was trying so hard to bring myself to give you the greatest proof of my love." "What is that? Why do you hesitate then?" cried Bernard, his sunburnt face glowing redder as he bent forward eagerly, searching her features with joy-lit eyes. Vilette withdrew her little hand — for that of a country-girl it was unusually soft and small — from his warm grasp. A little flush of humiliation crept into her cheeks, almost or verily tears to her eyes. "It is so bad to be poor, dear; isn't it?" she whispered, picking some of her blue corn-flowers to 3 * pieces with trembling fingers. " It 's nearly a disgrace. I— I — could not say it to anyone but you ; because I do — care — for you." The last words came between two such pitiful small sobs, which Vilette made a big effort to repress.

Next instant Bernard's arms were round her, and he was consoling, assuring, chiding her all in a breath with broken sentences. " You silly Vilette. . . . Poor darling. . . . Why did you not guess I am only too proud, too glad ? . . . You might have told me sooner, you siliy child." Bernard felt for all the loose coin he had about him, and pouring it laughingly into Vilette's palm, without letting her look, closed her fingers over it. " There ! that is only in pledge of what is to follow. How much shall it be, my liege lady? The more you ask the better, you know ; for it will be the greater proof you do care for me ! Ten — twenty — thirty pounds ? " Vilette's blue eyes opened wide ; her breath came in little pants : " Oh, I don't know, indeed, indeed! . . . There is poor mother's rent. . . .

Her leg was bad, you know. And Sarah's last dress was a misfit . . . and our cow Oh ! please let me tell you, Bernard." For Bernard had closed her faltering confession in the recognised manner of lovers. " I do not want to know. It is sufficient for me that you want it, and will accept it. Forty I shall send, Vilette ; is that enough, dear? " Vilette only breathed a long-drawn " Oh ! " of wonderment ; her face was like that of a smiling angel seen through a rain-shower. Brandon had calculated in a trice that he could so easily refuse himself that young filly of Farmer Apthorp's ; for he had been saving up his money in order to buy and break it in. Most likely she would have proved a bad bargain. Never had he felt more entranced with Vilette. Her helplessness brought her down to need his pro tection, and he was prouder and fonder than ever.

In her innocent ignorance the village girl, no doubt, thought him a Crœsus ; she knew so little, for instance, of the difference in market value between himself and young Lord Farringford. " And now I must be going. My father will be expecting me at six o'clock, dear." "No, no; not just for a few, few little minutes," implored Vilette, holding his hands in turn to pre vent Bernard looking at his watch. Her hands, though small and rather weak, were tenacious as the tendrils of a twining plant. They clung so light and tight, that it would have been cruelty to tear them off. She laughed in Brandon's eyes, and so for a few minutes — yes, and some more! — they still lingered. Vilette put forth all her spells of sweet whispered words, glances, airy magic, lest her lover should leave with the last flavour in his memory that of mere money, not love.

He was fast-held in her power. The church clock below in the valley pealed slowly six distinct strokes. Bernard started at the first in self-reproach. " I am late— there ! " They hastened out of the wood, and parted on the hill top ; Bernard's home lying on the further side of Farringford demesne, away from the village. As they were separating, a man came unawares round the corner of a path a few yards distant, looked at them keenly, and, slightly raising his hat, passed on. He was thin and pale, with a hungry eager expression, a high nose, darkly prominent eyes, and curling dark hair. Bernard's face clouded. "That is that wretched half-French fellow Dubosq, or whatever is his name, — young Farringford's former tutor. Luckily he is not going your way : I can't bear the sight of him." " Poor young man.