Transcriber’s Note: Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. Additional
notes will be found near the end of this ebook.
Dungeon Rock;
OR
THE PIRATE’S CAVE,
AT LYNN.
BOSTON:
C. M. A. TWITCHELL, Printer, 50 Bromfield St., Boston.
1885.
Copyright by
MRS. S. P. AMES.
1885.
To Mrs. Hannah Lucinda Marble, widow of the late Excavator, and at
the present time the person most interested in this romantic spot, I
dedicate this book.
S. P. A.
HISTORY OF DUNGEON ROCK.
Dungeon Rock is as yet only half known. More than “two hundred years
ago,” when first the foot of civilization pressed the unturned sod of
New England’s rock-bound soil, a man, past the prime of life, having
lost his place in England, determined on seeking a new name in a new
country. Accordingly, he embarked with his only earthly treasures,
his wife and the family coat of arms, and, after a dangerous voyage,
reached Plymouth Rock, only to encounter more dangers. And there, in
that lonely home, away from all that makes life desirable to childhood,
did the little William first see the light of day, and began the battle
of living without love. None but those who have experienced it can tell
how deep and terrible is the sternness of a disappointed man.
Ben Wallace--for this was the adventurer’s name--had acquired a morbid
hate for everything bright and beautiful, and lived, like most of New
England’s early settlers, for the stern realities of life, expecting
nothing but hardships, and therefore seeking nothing. No wonder, then,
that the aristocratic blood of English ancestry, coursing through the
child’s veins, rose against the injustice of being a dependent where he
should have been a pride; and, even in his baby days, when the garden
was his play-ground, the unrooted stumps his rocking-horses, and the
strips of painted basket material, which he now and then received from
the Indian children in the neighborhood, represented to his childish
gaze the flags and banners of ancient heraldry, which his mother
pointed out to him upon the coat of arms,--even then he defied his
father’s commands, and turned from his stern reproofs to whisper the
childish longings of his own heart to the birds and the dancing stream.
“I hate it,” he said passionately, when he had arrived at the age of
fourteen; “I hate the strong fence that keeps me from finding other
people’s homes! I hate to be confined to work that I detest, just for
the sake of getting food from day to day. I will not do it. The world
shall know that William Wallace was not born for no purpose. I will
help some one, if it is savages and wild beasts.”
Thus spoke the stripling in his lonely home. For six long years did
he cherish that one bright thought. It was all the hope he had to
stimulate him when labor was his only portion, and life was scarcely
worth the danger of preserving it. At last he refused to bear it any
longer, and, one pleasant night in early spring, he dressed himself
as near like a native as he could, gathered his own clothes into as
small a compass as possible, sprang lightly over the garden fence, and
carefully threaded his way through the almost pathless wood to the
nearest Indian camp. From there it was an easy task to go further,
and he soon began his plans for himself. These were, to get as far
from Plymouth as he dared, and still be somewhere in the region of
civilization. It was before the foundery was started in Saugus, when
only a few stalwart men were discussing the probability of extensive
mines in that direction. But Wallace liked the sea-shore; so he built
him a residence miles and miles away from any human habitation,
determined to assist the first suffering creature that came within
his reach. Custom soon came. Little clubs of men often repaired some
worn-out canoe, left by the Indians upon the sand, and embarked in
it upon the dashing billows to try their luck in procuring fish for
food. Almost invariably there would some mishap befall them; and every
night the bold young Wallace went to rest with a proud and happy smile
curving his delicate lips, and a feeling of true unselfish generosity
nestling in his heart. He was happy in his honest calling, and wished
for no greater reward than what he received from the natives, and the
rough but kind-hearted settlers.
For a short time he lived thus, and his whole soul was in his work. But
a change came at last. One fearful stormy night, when the waves rolled
far up on the dark sand, and the rain and the wind chanted their wild
music, he heard a low moan, instantly followed by a loud cry of agony,
and quick calls for help.
He was used to scenes of danger, and, merely supposing that another
frail boat had consigned its precious charge to the watery god, and
that more human beings were in need of help, he arose, unbarred the low
door, and bade the strangers welcome.
Before they entered the house its inmates--consisting of a young
Scotchman, his fair, pleasant-looking English wife, and their daughter,
whose years had been spent in luxury until now that ten summers had
passed above her head, her beauteous home had gone, and she too was
destined to a life of labor--were all astir, and the warm fire lighted
in the heavy grate.
A tall, well-formed man first entered the room, with a thick frock of
shag enveloping his person, confined at the waist by a broad belt,
into which was thrust an unsheathed dirk-knife, and a short sword hung
suspended by his side. His hat was dripping with water, and his broad
shoulders and powerfully-built frame made him look, in his unique
costume, like a representation of Hercules; while his black hair and
eyes and burlesque manner and motions, gave him the appearance of what
he really was, a pirate and a plunderer.
“Give us the most comfortable place in the house,” he said, with a
careless glance around. “If it had not been for this accursed storm,
and the woman aboard, we should not have been obliged to come at all.”
And he strode out again into the darkness, followed by Jamie Burns, the
Scotch emigrant, who was resting there until he could find a home for
himself.
“Alice,” said the mother, nervously, as she saw the child walk firmly
to the open door, “do keep away all you can. If we are all to be
murdered, we might as well be cautious about it, as to run into danger
with our eyes wide open;” and, turning from the beating rain, she drew
the rough oaken chair to the fire, and arranged a fleecy lamb’s-wool
blanket, which she had brought from home, about its comfortable
cushions.
They soon returned. Veale, the first comer, bore a slight girlish form
in his arms, enveloped in satin and ermine; her fair pale face forming
a strange contrast with the deep crimson hood which fell back from her
high white brow, revealing the sunny-hued curls which hung over her
rich dress.
There were four other men, in the same dress, and having the same
general appearance as the first; and, from the noise outside, Wallace
concluded there were several more to come.
The men took very little notice of each other, and the lady was
beginning to revive under the kindly care of Mrs. Burns, when the
voices again approached the door, and, after a short consultation
there, three kept on across the beach, and another entered the house.
This last was called Harris, by the lady and the men within, who
seemed to look up to him as their captain, or, rather, their leader.
He appeared the youngest of them all; but there was a lofty look of
daring in his dark hazel eyes, and an unfaltering determination in
his small mouth, that seemed to quell each motion of familiarity. He
looked kindly at the little group huddled around the fire, and gazing
so suspiciously at his band of followers. He was rather tall, but very
slightly formed, and his dark green frock and crimson sash set off his
wild beauty to peculiar advantage.
“Is it far to where you are going, lady?” said Alice, timidly.
The pale face lighted up a moment with pleasure, and, as she turned
toward the child, and laid her white dimpled hand on Alice’s brown
hair, she looked quite like a living being. “I do not know, little
one,” she answered; “I never was this way before. I wish I did know
where we are,” she continued, sadly, with a wistful glance at the
half-closed door.
“It is only a little way from here,” said Harris, soothingly; “see,
the moon is coming out already, and we shall soon be on our way.” And
taking a small compass from his pocket, he adjusted it in the window
frame, as if to shape the course he should take when he left. “Go and
unfasten the boat,” he said, peremptorily, to one of the men, “and
bring up my mantle for your mistress. Quick, man,” he added, as the man
hesitated; “are you afraid of the moonshine?” and, impatiently opening
the rough door, he gazed upon the hurrying clouds and the straggling
moonbeams, that half lighted the broken rocks near the dwelling.
The man returned from the water with a large, heavily-embroidered
mantle, the deep gold-tipped fringe almost sweeping the floor as he
threw it over his shoulders to see if it was uninjured. At last they
left, just as the gray dawn was breaking. Veale, who seemed to be chief
assistant, gave a signal, and the four men marched rapidly down to the
water. Harris threw a purse of gold upon the table, and followed Veale,
who bore the lady from the house wrapped in the rich mantle.
Wallace looked after them with a dubious, thoughtful look clouding his
honest brow. It was long before he heard again from the mysterious
visitors, but he kept a more vigilant watch for passing vessels, and
answered more readily to unexpected calls than before.
At last they came again. It was night, as before; the pale full
moon was shedding its pure radiance over the sleeping earth. He was
not startled this time. He was alone in the house, and three heavy
knocks were heard upon the outer door. They soon entered the house.
Four strong, dark-looking men, bearing a huge box that seemed heavy
with something more than its own weight, or the strong irons that
bound it, and, as it reached the floor, a dull ring from the inside
told a strange tale of darkness. But the men spoke not, except in
monosyllables, and Wallace forebore to question them.
As soon as they had found a place for the box, they left, and, after
being gone some time, returned with another, corresponding in size
with the first, but apparently lighter and less firmly secured. As
they placed it upon the floor the spring (for there were few locks
in those days) flew open, revealing rich dark silks, with heavy
gold lace trimmings, small wrought cases of ebony or ivory, and
beautiful ornaments of all kinds. They appeared to be not in the least
disconcerted, but closed the box again with a loud noise, just as
Harris entered with a stranger clad in Spanish citizen’s dress. There
was a striking contrast in their looks, as Harris raised the elegant
bandit cap from his high, white brow, and passed his delicate fingers
through the short, clustering curls, and the stranger flung his heavy
slouched hat upon the floor beside him, and stroked his thick, black
moustachios with his sun-browned hand.
“We must arrange this matter as quick as practicable,” said Harris, in
an undertone, apparently continuing their former conversation. “If you
have any papers of consequence, I shall expect you to give them up.
You can take a small tract of land somewhere near here, or when we go
back to the continent you can return; but you will be obliged to keep
it constantly in your mind that dead men tell no tales, and living ones
are not allowed to; do you understand?” and the youthful leader of that
strong band looked fearlessly upon the dark face beside him.
A low mutter of dissatisfaction escaped the swarthy Spaniard as he
said, “I want none of your bribes; I want my honest pay.”
“Ah! and how much?” said Harris, carelessly.
“Four thousand roubles, which will just pay my forfeiture, and let me
back to my own country,” was the gloomy reply.
A quick look of intelligent forethought passed over Harris’ face,
but he only replied, calmly, “You shall have it;” then, turning from
the warm fire, he commenced an animated conversation with Wallace
concerning his position and its profits.
“Where are your men?” suddenly exclaimed the stranger, rising from his
seat, and drawing the heavy folds of his Spanish cloak more closely
about his short figure.
“They have gone up the river in the boat, and will soon return,”
replied Harris.
“Do you reside near here?” asked Wallace.
Harris laughed. “Our traffic is such that it requires us to be
constantly on the wing, and we have chosen this as our stopping place,”
he answered.
Wallace did not notice the reply; he was looking thoughtfully at the
heavy chests, and wondering what they contained. Harris saw it; he knew
that suspicion was worse than a knowledge; so carelessly continuing
the conversation, he said, “We have a great deal of merchandise to
transport, and such cases as these are very useful. This,” he said,
pushing the spring to one of them, “contains clothing for my wife, Lady
Morrillo, which is my native name.”
“But these are Spanish goods, I take it,” said Wallace, with an earnest
look at the nicely-packed box.
“They are,” was the reply; “they come from the capital. I had an
opportunity to procure them easily; and, besides, I like the Spanish
costume for a lady; especially when travelling. See,” he continued,
raising a delicate jewel case, and turning the flashing diamonds to
the light, “this is of native Spanish workmanship, and there is more
beauty than durability to it, I expect.”
“Yes,” said the stranger, rousing himself from the drowsy sleep into
which he had fallen, “yes, that came from the queen’s boudoir. I tried
hard to save them, but it was no use; the robbers were too strong for
us.” And with a heavy sigh the man leaned his head against the back of
his large chair and appeared to sleep.
A dark thought flashed across Wallace’s mind, but Harris laughed so
unconcernedly, and handled the brilliant ornaments with such natural,
careless ease, that he forgot his suspicions in their beguiling talk.
“Why do you have the chests made so strong?” Wallace asked, after
awhile.
“O, we need it,” he replied, “lifting them in and out the boats; and
sometimes we have articles of value to carry. Now, that case has all
our most important papers in it. So it is necessary that it should be
made strong.”
“Yes,” said the stranger, again, with more energy than before, “the
papers and all that money belong to the Spanish government. It was
an infernal mean scheme letting those banditti into the banquet, but
little Cristelle was wilful, and fancied their handsome clothes covered
honest hearts.”
“Come, Don Jose,” said Harris, gayly, “do try to wake your sleepy ideas
before you talk any more. I presume,” he added, turning to Wallace,
and noting the dark foreboding that again crossed his brow, “that he
refers to some valuable pieces of plate in our possession. You remember
when the last rebellion took place the capital was said to have been
robbed. At that time the insurgents placed some of their spoils in
trust in our hands, and we still retain them. Don Jose is confused
tonight; what with the sea-sickness, and the change from cold to warm
air, he is nearly insensible,” and he laughed a careless, merry laugh,
at the same time casting a look of stern, contemptuous reproof upon the
cowering Spaniard.
At this stage of affairs the sound of heavy voices, and the tramp of
measured steps, told that the men had returned. Don Jose sprang from
his seat with a quick, nervous motion, drew his hat over his dark,
flashing eyes, and waited impatiently for further motions. Wallace
opened the door; and, as he supposed, the same four men that brought
the boxes entered to remove them. He was deceived, however, by their
dress; the whole band, consisting of between thirty and forty members,
dressing alike, excepting the five leaders and Harris, who, although he
had not yet reached the twenty-second year of his age, was universally
acknowledged as leader of the whole; his father having held that place
until his death, which occurred two years before.
* * * * *
And now the tangled thread of our history leads us back, three long and
changing years, to a small thatched cottage in Italy, where all day
long the air is heavy with perfume, and the sun goes down at eventide
in a sea of purple, and crimson, and gold.
“Mother, you do wrong to judge Morrillo so harshly,” said a low, sweet
voice, one mid-summer night. “True, he wears the bandit frock and
cap, but I know they hide a noble head, and shield a generous heart.
Besides, he is so young now that his father’s will is the only law he
knows; he never had a mother to tell him how to live.” And the voice
was low and sad, and the slight form of Arabel Ortono glided away from
the drooping vine she was trailing, and sought her favorite retreat in
the shaded veranda.
Her mother soon sought her there, and paused a moment in the low,
arched doorway to contemplate the picture before her. Arabel was
kneeling in a shaded niche, her fair young face flushing and paling
alternately, her long golden-brown curls sweeping over the closely
fitting spencer of darkest hue, and her eyes raised to catch the
brightest moonbeams as they struggled through the thick vines.
“Well, Arabel,” said the mother, at last, interrupting the girl’s
reverie, “you have argued the young pirate’s cause pretty faithfully;
now let me hear you protect your own. Tell me how and why you first
became interested in those most lawless of all unlawful men, and I will
try to be reasonable with your wild fancies.”
Proudly the young Venetian rose from her lowly place and stood beside
her mother. “Almost,” said the mother, playfully measuring the girl’s
height with her eye, “almost as tall as I.”
“Yes, mother,” answered the girl. “I am at least large enough to know
how to talk reasonably,” and a light, scornful smile flitted over the
fair, pale face.
The mother noticed it, but only answering, calmly, “I am ready now,”
she seated herself upon the long rustic bench and prepared to listen.
“Fourteen years ago today,” Arabel commenced, in a low, hurried voice,
“my father died, and left you with three small children, myself the
youngest, and for that reason most fondly cherished. ‘You must teach
them how to live, Clarette,’ I heard him say, one bright, moonlit
evening, when you was weeping by his bedside in our palace home, and
we were nestled on the low divan in the deep windows, trembling and
terrified. I remember every incident of the dark and dreadful days that
followed, as well as though it were but yesterday. The heavy pall, with
its silver trimmings, the jet-black horses, and the dark and solemn
hearse. Then our house was barricaded, and even you, mother, will not
dare to say that the noble band of Morrillo’s followers did not help
us more than all the Venetian police. I saw them then on that fearful
day, and I honored the bandit badge which bound them to each other. It
is to them we owe all we have here to remind us of our former home; and
even if they have in their possession the most valuable of our family
treasures, it is better so than that our enemies should have them, is
it not?” and the girl paused and looked calmly into her mother’s eyes.
“Yes, Arabel,” was the half-stifled reply. “It is time that you should
know what I never dared tell you before, even though it fixes you more
firmly in the purpose I am trying to change. It is to the gray-haired
Morrillo that we owe our present home. All you have ever known of your
father is only what your own childish heart taught you to remember.
But there is more for you to know, and you must know it. Signor Ortono
was a friend to the Venetian Emperor at the time when his enemies were
most numerous. When our house was barricaded, at the time you remember,
was when the opposing party made their grand attack, and impoverished
all the families that did not lend them aid. Ours of course must have
yielded an easy prey, had it not been for the kindly interference of
the pirate robbers, who, though they took a great deal that rightfully
belonged to us, left us enough to procure a home and live comfortably.
And this was fourteen years ago, when you had reached the third year of
your sunny life. Ever since then I have heard from them occasionally,
and now--O, bitter fate!--that my youngest, and, as it were, my only
child, should so forget the high estate of her birth as to look with
favor on the robber’s child!” And the mother ceased speaking, but the
scornful tones of her voice still rung in the girl’s ears.
“But you have not heard half of my story yet,” she said, softly,
crushing back her rebellious thoughts. “Ten years ago, when first
my sisters went away from their own home, to the vineyard in Orton
village, one of the same band that helped us in our trouble gave Uncle
Fay a silver salver, with our family crest upon it, because Luella
had not turned from her purpose when she was trying to reinstate
herself in the family name. And, last of all, just one short year ago,
Morrillo came here in a pelting storm, and claimed a home for a few
hours. We knew him well, but he had entirely forgotten us. He feigned
no surprise, however, when you recalled those distant, painful days,
but restored with seeming pleasure all these mementoes of the city
home. You know, if we had the most costly articles here, they would be
immediately taken from us. He gave us even more than we can keep in
safety, and for all these kindnesses I am very grateful.” And a slight
blush deepened on the girl’s cheek as she ceased speaking.
“So it is only gratitude, eh! that calls my Bel so often down to the
sparkling waters of the gulf in the moonlight?” said the mother, with
the same unreconciled sadness in her voice.
“I care not that you should know it, mother,” was the reply. “I have
never yet tried to hide anything from you. I am proud to acknowledge
the acquaintance of one so noble as Claud Morrillo. It is to meet him
that I wander down the beach when I know the boats are coming in,” And,
with a look of forced carelessness, the young Italian kissed her mother
a good-night, and went to rest with a heavy weight on her proud heart,
where a happy hope had late found birth.
Years pass very rapidly when every day brings its own task and leaves
no time for idleness; and now, almost before we are aware of it, the
luscious autumn is gone, winter withdraws his fleecy mantle, and the
spring is growing old. Again the cottage home is hushed and still; the
blinds are closed, and no sign or sound of life comes from the silent
interior. The gray morning sky is tinted with gorgeous clouds, that
gradually deepen toward the east, where they are bursting into one
steady glow of crimson beauty. In the little room, that has so long
been Arabel’s, the same slight form is resting, and the same low voice
breathed out the last night’s prayer. But a change has passed over her
still life,--a change that is felt, but only half realized.
“Dead, dead!” she moaned, faintly, in her uneasy slumbers; and in the
hall below two forms are faintly discernible in the darkened gloom.
They are the two older sisters, Christabel and Luella, who have
returned from the vineyard to watch over their mother’s sickness, and
attend to the last sad rites of her burial, for she was indeed dead,
dead.
“It is very hard to have death steal so dear a mother, is it not
Lu?” said Arabel, with childish trust, for grief had made her alike
powerless to think or act.
“No, not hard,” was the calm reply, “for it was our Father’s will.
Mother was not used to such a life. It would be selfish in you to wish
her back again. You can go to the vineyard with us tomorrow, and then
you will soon learn to be your own mother,” and Luella turned away.
“O, not tomorrow!” sobbed Arabel, convulsively. “You will not go
tomorrow, Christa?” and she looked tearfully upon her other sister.
“Well, and if you stay another day, will you be any more willing to
go?” said the straightforward Christabel.
Arabel pressed both hands upon her brow, as though she would
concentrate her scattered thoughts, and said mournfully, “If you will
let me stay until Friday night, I will go anywhere.”
“Have you no reason for wishing to remain except your own fancy?” asked
Luella, gently.
“I don’t know,” was the sad reply; “it may be fancy, but I do want to
stay.”
“Very well, then,” said Christa, “we will do as you say;” and so the
matter was settled.
Friday night came at last. The furniture was all packed or disposed
of. It was arranged that they should leave early next morning, and
Arabel wandered out alone, to take, as she said, a last farewell of
the pleasant gulf of Venice, but in reality to meet Claud again, and
tell him her grief, and the new home to which she was going. A long,
graceful boat came bounding over the water, and the pale, blue light in
the stern distinguished it from every other sailer. Soon its keel ran
far upon the sand, and a tall, handsome form sprang out, and, giving a
few orders to the rowers, told them when to return for him, then walked
on, leaving them to put back. Three times did he and Arabel meet and
pass each other, and every time a look of recognition passed between
them, but there were laws to govern all their actions, which they both
knew, to prevent deception. Then, the hours passed all too quickly for
their busy tongues, for there had been many changes since they met
before.
“We will not talk so mournfully any more, Bel. You have been more
favored than I, for you have had a mother to love you,” said the youth,
pleasantly.
“And you than I, for you have had a father to direct,” was the sad
reply. For it was Claud’s task now to comfort the petted child.
The next day the sisters sold the cottage and left for Orton Village
vineyard. “I know not how we shall like each other,” Luella said; and
as an instance of the dissimilarities in their characters, we have but
to look at the way they speak of their mother’s death.
“She is dead, Claud; my own dear mother is dead,” Arabel said,
convulsively, stifling her sobs. “O, I can’t be proud now, for she is
dead!” And, resting her head on his shoulder, she wept her grief away.
Christabel comes next. She was writing to a friend of hers, a vintner,
whose place joined Ortonville. “My mother is not living,” she wrote,
calmly, “and, for the future, my home will be just where I chance to
stay.”
“Just two short nights ago,” so spoke Luella’s diary, “our only
surviving parent went home to the Father who gave her life; her pale
hands clasping the silver crucifix to her still heart, and her last
faint breath used to speak to her dearest earthly treasures. ‘You
must be Arabel’s mother, Luella, and perform your own life-task well,’
was her only counsel to me. To Christa she said still less, doubtless
knowing that she had her father’s strong intellect and thorough
knowledge of human nature. Arabel was her principal thought, and no
wonder, either, she is so young and inexperienced. I wish I could
remember half that I have heard her say. I wonder why she said so many
times, ‘if you would escape a life of unhappiness, remember what I say,
and never, never wed an infidel.’”
But we are making a short story too long. Suffice it to say that the
girls soon learned to take each her own place at the vineyard, and
direct the laborers at their work with quiet ease.
“It is not often that we meet now, Claud says,” murmured Arabel, “after
being six months in the vineyard; but I know he likes his wild home
better than this, and surely I do, it is so very pleasant to have no
confinement to certain hours of labor. Tonight I am going again to the
fortress--joy! joy!” And she went fearlessly as the wild bird to its
mountain nest, trustingly as the lamb to the shepherd’s fold.
Claud was walking on the battlements, with his eyes fixed upon the
ground. Arabel ascended the steps and commenced the promenade. Four
times they met and passed each other; then, trembling with a strange
apprehension, she approached and laid her white hand on his arm. He
started as though just awakened from a dream.
“Is it you, Bel?” he said, and pressed a kiss on her pallid brow, then
led her out from the deep shadow to where they could see the moonlight
resting on the waves.
“Claud, I am afraid of you,” Arabel said, soberly. “What makes your
hand tremble, and your cheek so pale?” and she looked earnestly into
his face.
“Poor child!” said Claud, sadly. Arabel heard it, and answered quickly,
“O, Claud, I am not a child! I can bear to know anything. See how
strong I am!” and she drew her hand from his arm and stood before him.
Claud smiled, sadly and said, “We are twins in sorrow now; both alone,
Bel!”
Slowly the blood left her face, and her hands clasped nervously
together. “Tell me what you mean, Claud,” she said, as she only half
understood him; “tell me if you have no father!”
“It is even so,” was the reply. “My father died since noon today, and
now his form is resting in the hall, where the soft light is gleaming
out. Come, we will go and see how calm he looks in his majestic
repose;” and, without waiting for a reply, he drew her in through the
heavily-wrought curtains to the large, dimly-illumined apartment, where
rested a metal burial-case which contained all that was earthly of the
gray-haired chief, known as Morrillo, the bandit’s pride, there in the
gloomy fortress, and as Claudius Etheredge in the brilliant Roman home.
But none who met him at the brave display of chivalry, or in the more
courtly halls of etiquette, dreamed their haughty yet affable host was
the famous Morrillo, whom they feared and dreaded.
“He was my own dear friend,” Arabel said, in a low voice. “How will you
bury him?” she added, quickly, thinking of her own parents.
A mournful smile lighted Claud’s beautiful face for a moment as he
replied, “Tonight the carriage will come from Etheredge Hall, and
tomorrow he will be buried in state from our royal home. I shall be
chief mourner, sole mourner as to that part, except a few fawning
relatives, who know nothing of the dead, except that he is reputed to
leave a princely fortune;” and a darkly bitter smile crossed the young
Italian’s face. “I hate such detestable hypocrisy,” he said, “but my
father always had it to bear, and I must take his place in everything.
So help me, father!” and he bowed his head, and laid his hand on the
cold, damp brow.
Arabel was startled, alarmed, terrified, at his strange words. “How can
_he_ go to Etheredge Hall?” she said, “Lord Etheredge is away, and does
not expect to return for thirty days, at least.”
“How know you?” exclaimed Claud, earnestly.
“My Uncle Fay Ortono, who married Lady Emelie Etheredge, half sister to
the noble lord,” was the reply.
“Then they are not your relatives,” he said. “But tell me, Bel, if you
can keep a secret.”
She nodded, silently and wonderingly.
“What is my name?” he asked.
“Claud Morrillo,” said Arabel, proudly.
Claud smiled sadly, and said, “Yes, to you I am; but I have two names.
Now, mind what I say, Arabel,” he said, sternly grasping her arm; “my
father and Lord Etheredge are one and the same person, and I am now
to take his title, and be Lord Etheredge in his stead. But, by the
acquaintance we have had with each other, Arabel Ortono, and by the
remembrance of our many meetings here, I warn you to tell no one of
what I have said tonight.”
Then tearfully they parted, that warm, soft night; Arabel to weep
until slumber closed her weary lids, and brought gay visions of future
happiness; Claud to return to the fortress, arrange his father’s
business, snatch a single hour of deep, unrefreshing repose, and, as
the bell on the high tower rung out the mystic midnight hour of twelve,
to see his father’s form placed in his own private carriage and whirl
rapidly away, drawn by his own splendidly caparisoned horses.
As morning dawned, Claud left the fortress in the care of the banditti,
and went in a disguised conveyance to his home in Rome, and spent half
the hours of that long day in pacing up and down the gorgeous rooms.
Friends called, but he steadily refused himself to them; relatives
arrived, but he kept from them in scorn. At last another guest was
announced. It was Fay Ortono, Lady Emelie and Luella having accompanied
him to the burial. Deeply and truly did they sympathize with the young
lord, and he appreciated their disinterestedness; for were they not
Arabel’s nearest friends; and might he not, through them, become
better acquainted with her?
At sunset, that night, Lord Etheredge was buried. Waxen tapers were lit
in the damp tomb, and heavy, mellow-toned bells tolled out the last
requiem of departed worth.
“He is not an infidel!” murmured Arabel, joyfully. “Mother in heaven!
Claud is good; for he believes, and the monks have said mass for him.”
Another half-year went by with magic rapidity. Again came the luscious
harvest-time, and again the girls were needed more than ever at the
vineyard, when death came again; and this time, O terror, Uncle Fay
was called. The girls worked nobly, so said Lady Emelie; they should
be rewarded for it, and so they were; but when winter came, they
could stay no longer, and, by Claud’s invitation, they went together
to the fortress, and determined to make it, for a short time, their
home. There was but one female there at the time, and she was the most
silent of her famously loquacious sex. The girls lived very pleasantly
together, sometimes for whole weeks seeing no one besides themselves,
and again having company every day, when Claud was about. But all this
time Luella was fading. Her breath came quick and painful, her pale
cheeks wore a bright flush, and her firm step faltered. Claud was first
to make the sad discovery. He had been away on a cruise, and, upon his
return, had taken the fortress for his home once more.
“You shall have all the physicians in Venice,” said the silent
housekeeper, as she saw how sick the girl was growing, “and the best
nurse in all Italy, rather than die so young.”
But it all availed nothing; she was dying. Aunt Emelie rode over in her
own beautiful carriage to take her back to the vineyard, but she did
not go. All the long winter she looked from the high, arched windows,
and when the warm spring air stole in through the rich, soft curtains,
the light reburned in her eyes, and she felt her strength returning.
Then they thought she would soon be well, and even she herself was for
a short time deceived.
But another subject was now uppermost in their minds. Christa was
to leave them for the vinter’s home. She was married in the dim
old cathedral, and a long train of attendants swept gaily out, for
it was grand to be married beneath the roof-tree of the young Lord
Etheredge, no one but Arabel knowing that the fortress was the bandit’s
hiding-place, and she, like a discreet girl, kept her own counsel, and
allowed them all to live in blissful ignorance.
Then Arabel was wedded, too, with lilies in her jeweled bouquet-holder,
and knots of pearls in her long golden brown curls; with a long
embroidered veil floating round her slight form, and her heavy blonde
sleeves caught up with pearls upon the shoulders of her satin spencer.
Luella kissed her tenderly, as a mother would a happy child, then
passed her hands over her smooth, dancing curls, and smiled to see them
roll up again.
“I know I look pretty, Lu,” Arabel said; “for when we stood together by
the statues, just now, Claud said, Luella was a perfect representation
of pride perfectly subdued; but Bel was a Diana when moving, and a
Madonna when still.”
Luella only smiled at her sister’s words. She knew Arabel was not vain,
and she had no fears for the future when her easy-chair was placed in
the large cathedral to witness the brilliant bridal. “Have I no sister
now?” she asked, half sadly, half playfully, as Arabel danced by her,
all radiant in her glorious beauty.
“Certainly,” answered a manly voice beside her; “she does not love the
old friend less, but loves the new one more.”
Luella turned quickly, and met a pair of searching blue eyes fixed upon
her beautiful face. “I beg pardon, lady,” said the man, in a slightly
confused tone, “I thought I was a stranger here, but I believe we have
met before.”
“It may be,” said Luella, thoughtfully; “your voice is familiar, but
your looks I have forgotton.” Then suddenly remembering herself, she
added, “Were you ever at Orton Village vineyard?”
The puzzled look left his face, as he replied, “So we are not entirely
unacquainted. May I ask how you succeeded in the work you was engaged
in when we last met?”
“Very well,” was her reply; “even better than I expected.”
“Then you are Lady Ortono?” he persisted.
“Yes; that is, I am recorded so. But I choose to be called by my own
simple name. I am only unwilling to believe that might makes right.”
“You do not mean to say it was from entirely disinterested motives
that you strove so hard for the name of Ortono?” said the stranger,
wonderingly. “You had the property restored, had you not?”
“No, Mons. Jerold,” she replied; “I have no wealth, no honor, no
family. I honor you and your band, for your steady attachment to each
other. I could wish that the business you follow was more lawful, and
the firmness you evince was in a better cause. Adieu, Mons. Jerold;”
and, with a pleasant smile, and a graceful wave of her thin, white
hand, she glided away, leaving the bandit captain laughing at his own
inquisitiveness, and vexed that he could not be an equal with the fair
girl, who had only her own native pride to support the high position
she had taken.
All those long, warm days, Luella had been lingering like a spirit,
only half confined to earth; and now the hectic flush burned deeper,
and her eyes flashed with renewed brilliancy; the blue veins, like a
net-work of azure threads, were traced on her pure brow, and her hands
grew more transparent every day.
With the best medical attendance, and the kindest care that could be
procured, she felt that she was soon to pass away, and she often spoke
of death.
“Bury me down by the water’s edge,” she said one night, when they were
watching, from the high windows, the moonlight on the dancing waves.
“Not in the sparkling sand here by the friendly tower, but away out,
where the shadows are long and dark, where the pure white cliff is
rising in the still night, a watcher over the gulf. Then, when night
comes again, I will come back to earth and tell you how I live.”
And, before another moon had waxed and waned, Luella slept the sleep
that knows no waking. And they buried her under the pure chalky cliff,
where she had so often watched the sea-gulls at the approach of a storm.
Arabel and Christa mourned for their sister, but Claud had just become
interested in the ideas of America as a grand resort. Arabel was all
on the qui vive to go, and, without one regret, with only a parting
farewell for Christa, and an earnest, gentle look at Luella’s grave,
she entered the boat with a light step and a light heart, and bade
adieu to her native land, perhaps forever. When they were far out at
sea, the last object on which her eyes rested was the pure white cliff
under which Luella slept. When they came in sight of land again it was
only a single hour past midnight, but the long, loud cry that rung out
from the stationed watch awakened every sleeper, and called up the
eager and curious to catch the first glimpse of land.
“Where are we now?” Arabel said, as she went upon deck, and felt the
land breeze sweeping around her, and filling the long flapping sails.
“We have reached our destination,” answered Harris, as Claud directed
the sailors to call him, for he felt that it was necessary to have a
new name for every place, to prevent suspicion.
Then fourteen of the crew manned a boat, and went ashore to make
discoveries; they returned at night-fall, having discovered the place
in Saugus known to this day as Pirate’s Glen, and still bearing the
evidence of having been inhabited. The next day there were heavy black
clouds in the horizon, and at night they burst in all their mad fury,
causing the black waves to seethe and boil against the rough rocks in
sight, and frightening Arabel almost away from her senses.
“We shall die, Claud, I know we shall,” she moaned, wearily grasping
the silken covering to the lounge on which she lay. Then she fainted.
Harris remembered a small public house he had seen upon the beach,
and determined that, be the consequences what they might, he would
reach that. The men readily volunteered to accompany them, and this
brings us back to the point where we started, the night that first gave
Wallace an acquaintance with the band of men that afterward frequented
_Pirates’ Glen_ and _Dungeon Rock_. It was, perhaps, a week that they
spent there, and then returned again to Italy; not, however, until they
had aroused the suspicions of the settlers, who were on the constant
lookout for danger.
A few weeks after their return, a great rebellion arose in Spain. Claud
must go; Arabel dared not,--so she remained at the fortress, with her
own thoughts and the gorgeous works of art for company, and he started
on the wild and perilous adventure. When he returned the boats were
loaded with costly articles that had the indelible Spanish stamp upon
them. These he secreted in the ancient fort. Some were carried away
up to their hiding place in Wales, and others were retained in Spain.
The greater part, however, were brought there, and to Arabel’s eager,
childish questions of where he found them, and what they were for, he
only answered, with a sober smile, “They are all to be changed into
money, Bel, unless you want some of them to wear.”
But he heard flying rumors that he was suspected even there. “That must
not be,” he said, firmly; “for I dread the idea of being known as a
pirate. I cannot, will not, bear it.”
So he packed the goods he had stolen from the imperial Spanish palace,
all the beautiful adornings of the fair young queen,--for it was she
whom Don Jose had called little Cristelle in the first part of our
story,--and hid them in the low vaulted basement. Don Jose had been
the queen’s valet, and Claud took him to be of future use to them in
discovering the secrets concerning their enterprise in Spain. Then he
opened the doors of the ancient tower and fortress; lighted up the long
cathedral, with its dim arches, and quaint oaken carving, and gave his
friends in Rome and Venice a banquet, at which he and his young bride
presided. The rooms were crowded with beauty and fashion; music floated
through the long corridors, and up and down the winding stairs, covered
for the occasion with rich, soft carpets. The night passed in revelry,
and when morning dawned the guests departed satisfied.
To Arabel it seemed like a fairy dream of beauty, so much life and joy
around; to Claud it was the hollow formalities of hypocrisy. He saw
the eager glances, the suspicious looks, the cautious steps, when they
entered the dim old rooms. He could bear his double part well, however,
and he did. It was not long after this that he carried the most
suspicious goods across the water, and landed them in the then unbroken
solitude of Pirates’ Glen.
By this time the foundery was nearly built. All the men of the place
met there to talk over their affairs, and here it was that Claud, or
rather Harris, used to station a watch, and sometimes he would stay
himself to hear what was said, and direct his own work accordingly.
Arabel had been staying at the Glen several days, and begged that she
might stop still longer,--the woody glade was so wild, and the distant
hills so high. She was not obliged to practice constant deception
there; she would remain a little while; and she did one whole long day
alone, but she was used to solitude.
That night the band was organized; it was to consist of six men, with
Veale for a leader, making seven beside Harris. There was another such
band in Italy; one in Spain, the beautiful land of legends and romance;
one in sunny, pleasant France; and one away in muddy Wales, where
meadows are greener and brighter for the stagnant water beneath, and
the ruinous old castle home of a former feudal lord was damp and gray
with age.
Two days Arabel remained in the glen alone, then Harris came back from
the boat with Don Jose; he appeared almost savage to Arabel, but he
soon learned that she was the leader’s bride, and could do as she chose.
At this time the first history, that is considered as really authentic,
is commenced. A vessel, afterward known as the phantom ship, was seen
in the waters off Nahant, at or near sunrise. It presented to the eye a
strange optical delusion of a ship resting motionless upon the water,
and another, the exact counterpart of the first, suspended keel upwards
in the air; the masts and rigging of the two apparently touching each
other. It was the pirate ship Arabel, that had come too far in at high
tide, and was therefore obliged to wait until the water rose again in
order to get out to sea.
Don Jose returned to Spain, but his honor was gone, his queen
dethroned, and he himself treated like a traitor on all sides. “I’ll
not have the name without the game, I reckon,” he said, with true
Spanish bitterness; and taking his only living relative, a boy about
twelve years of age, left him by his sister, he joined the banditti as
a wanderer, and not as a resident, determined to wreak his vengeance on
the Spanish government.
The next time the pirates came to America, Don Jose and the boy both
accompanied them. They landed early in the morning, and the boy Carl
took his place in the village as spy. All the long day he wandered up
and down, his quick ear catching every suspicious word, and at night,
while returning to the place fixed upon as the lookout, he arranged
the whole matter in his mind, making an accurate calculation of how
many reliable men the settlement numbered when they would make their
exploration, etc. By the time he had settled it all in his own thoughts
he arrived at “Lookout Hill,” or “High Rock,” as it is now called. With
a light, eager step, he clambered up the rocks, and reached the firm
platform upon the top. Soon he espied a moving speck far out upon the
blue waves, and immediately hoisting the signal agreed upon, he raised
a small glass to his eye, and commenced scanning the distant object.
He was dressed in the Spanish costume of that day; but there was an
oriental richness about it which is now lost to the world. It looked
more like the Turkish apparel of the present time; the flowing trousers
and tunic giving a graceful air to his slender form, and quick,
agile motions; and the whole occurrence gave rise to the interesting
novelette entitled, “The Child of the Sea.”
“What success, Carl?” asked Don Jose, as he came up the long path from
the boat-landing, and clasped the boy in his arms.
“The best, father,” was the reply, “but they are to have a meeting
tonight, which it will be best for some one of us to attend.” He then
told what he had heard through the day, and with his help the father
rehearsed it again to the band.
“I must go,” said Harris, springing up and preparing to leave.
“Why you, Sir Harris?” asked several voices.
“For this reason,” answered Harris, thoughtfully; “Don Jose has just
shown himself incapable of remembering, by being unable to repeat,
Carl’s story; Veal always needs to hear a story twice in order to
comprehend it; and the rest are not interested enough to understand
correctly, or report accurately; therefore I must go, or little Carl,”
he added, turning to the boy, who rose from his reclining posture and
stood beside his commander.
“I am not afraid, signor,” he said, firmly; “but it needs an older head
and truer skill than mine to study the craft of Englishmen.”
“Truly spoken, Carl,” answered Harris; “but you shall take my place
here,” and, pushing aside the heavy sail, he entered a little room
arranged for Arabel’s accommodation, followed by Carl.
“I am going over to the settlement, Bel,” he said “and have brought
you a new valet to entertain you while I am gone; if you like his
appearance, he shall be your page for the future.”
Arabel raised her eyes from the delicate chessboard, on which she was
listlessly arranging the men, and met Carl’s earnest childish gaze with
a pleasant smile. “But why must you go, Harris, there are enough beside
you,” she said, turning to him.
“We are liable to be routed from here at any time,” he replied, “and I
alone can manage the part of spy, and decide when to remove.” And away
he went, leaving Carl established in his new honors.