after she had heard Carl’s story of the great robbery, and listened
to his bewitching recital of the time when the young queen called him
her little page, and he supported her train in passing through the
corridor, or held her fan in the audience chamber. He did not know how
intimately connected his beautiful mistress and brave young commander
were with the robber Morrillo and his powerful band. “I wish I had died
long ago, in the little cottage by the waterside; not when my mother
did; so pure and calm was her spirit, mine would have looked dark
beside it; but, I was wild and thoughtless then. Methinks I have lived
a thousand years since that strange brightness passed away. Where are
you, mother? O, come back to me,--to your own Arabel!”
Even then there was a raging fever heat in her veins, and a delirious,
wildering look in her dark eyes. Long before the morning dawned, Harris
returned to the Glen. The men noted his mischievous, glancing smile,
more than his stern, commanding look, as he came out from the thick
underbrush, and waved his hand as a signal for them to stop.
“Have you removed and secured all your valuables?” he asked, “for I
have an inkling, from what has been said tonight, that they will soon
be on our track.”
“We have moved them all,” was the reply, “and are now waiting for you
to tell us what shall be done with our Madonna tonight. We might leave
her there, if we were sure Sir Wolf would wed her before daybreak;
but, then, she is a woman, and will be certain sure to do as she is not
wanted to.”
“Hold your peace, Don Jose!” thundered Harris, “or we will know the
reason. I would have you to know that my _wife_ is your _queen_;” and
there was a slight, mocking emphasis on the words, which brought back
the courage of the abashed Don Jose. “Remember you are seven in number
and one in thought,” added Harris, as he turned to leave them; “and now
go on with your work.”
Then he retraced his steps to the deserted Glen, and knelt by the couch
where Arabel had thrown herself. Her eyes were closed; one white hand
lay above her head, half shaded by the rich fold, of her satin dress,
that looked, with its glittering ornaments, better fitted for a bridal
or a banquet, than for that lonely forest home.
“Mother,” she moaned, faintly, “I am not dying; I shall not die.”
“Arabel,” said Harris, softly.
“I did obey you, mother. I spoke my marriage vows, kneeling by the
altar side,” she went on; “the priest’s white robes swept by us, and
the holy prayers went softly up to God in the twilight.”
“Yes, Bel, we were married in proper order; but don’t stop to talk of
that,” Harris said again. “I want to ask you how much misery you can
bear?”
Slowly she opened her large dark eyes, and fixed them on his face. “I
can bear all things, for I am strong,” she replied, quoting his own
words on a former occasion.
Harris paused; a momentary shudder passed over him, and he asked,
“Would you not like to be back to Italy?”
“Not yet,” she answered, for she feared the idea of being known and
recognized as the pirate’s bride, and felt that she was not strong
enough to carry out her two parts.
Then he told her how and why they must leave the Glen, pointed out
the slight but perfect trail they had formed, and took his own pocket
compass to show her how she could tell in what direction they each lay
from each other.
The next morning there was no trace of human life at the Glen; but
away across thick, densely-growing wood, and low, slimy swamps, where
the high cliff rose in bold relief against the fiery eastern sky, two
living beings could be seen upon the firm land, where a natural road
wound round the brow of the rocky hill. They were Harris and Carl, the
rest having left some time before, and they were now going to join
them, leaving Arabel alone there in the large chamber which the earth’s
convulsions had formed in the solid rock.
Noon came; the sun was pouring its fiercest rays upon the high hill,
and Arabel wandered to the thick vines with which the open door of the
entrance had been concealed, to catch, if she might, a single breath
of air to cool her throbbing brow. Suddenly, away where the tiny,
trembling needle told her to look for her former abiding place, she
saw a light smoke curling up. Instinctively she trembled with fear,
forgetting that the whole wood might be consumed, and still the
sheltering rock remain uninjured. “I must see what it is,” she said;
and, climbing slowly up the rocks, she reached the top, and proudly,
fearlessly looked down below. Scarcely discernible in the thick shadows
she saw a party of men, armed with flaming torches, creeping cautiously
on toward the Glen. She laughed a wild, ringing laugh, that echoed
far and wide; and for many years the weird-like story of the phantom
lady, decked in silks and jewels, and laughing at those who tried to
discover the pirates’ treasures, was told beside the fire, in the long
winter evenings, until at last it was thrown aside as a superstitious
falsehood, and now is only remembered in a few families as a quaint
legend of former years.
It was only two short days from then that Harris returned, but Bel
was a spirit. The excitement of those fearful hours had been too much
for her. She drew the downy, silken couch to the side of the spring
in the rock, where the clear water fell from the crevices above, with
a musical tinkle, into a large open basin below, and there, in that
silent room,
“She rested her fair pale face alone
By the cool bright spring in the hallowed stone;”
her jewelled hand supporting her head, crowned with its tiara of
velvet and pearls, her long brown hair floating like a veil over her
richly-wrought dress, and her slippered feet resting on a smooth slab
of Italian marble, which had been brought there to confine the waters
in the spring.
And thus they found her, sleeping calmly, peacefully, her eyes closed
tightly, and her teeth set firmly together. There was a strange
calmness in Harris’ manner, as he pressed his hand upon her cold, damp
brow, and swept back her long spiral curls. Then, with a quick, excited
glance at her firmly closed eyes, he gave rapid orders for a burial
case, such as they always carried with them, to be brought up, that
her body might be placed in it and carried to Italy. As he raised the
inanimate form in his arms, and laid her head upon a cushion of velvet
and eider-down, a paper floated out from the heavy folds of her dress,
and rested on the stones at his feet. He took it up; it was a few
verses of poetry, traced in the delicate Italian penmanship of Arabel’s
own hand. Tears sprang to the almost girlish eyes of the boy, Carl, as
he saw them.
“She was like a sister to you, was she not, Carl?” Harris said, kindly,
laying his hand upon the boy’s head. A deep sigh was his only answer,
and the boy turned away. Then drawing a richly-chased knife from a
wrought case by his side, he lifted one of the long ringlets from her
dress, and turned a beseeching look upon Harris. “You may have it,
Carl,” he answered to the boy’s look; and the bright, polished steel
glanced in among the waving hair, until only the gold tipped haft was
visible.
“What will you do with that, signor?” Carl said, pointing to the paper.
Harris glanced over it, and then read aloud:
“Bury me not by the water’s edge,
Away in my dear old home,
Nor in the shade of the pure white cliff,
Where the screaming sea-gulls come.
But away, away, on the high hill’s brow,
Where the dark trees darker wave,
Ye have found for me a stranger home,--
O, give me a stranger grave!”
“I have no one but you to advise me, Carl; now tell me what to do,”
Harris said.
Carl looked out at the glowing western sky, and said: “She will be
better pleased if we will comply with her last request; we will bury
her here.”
Harris only smiled at the boy’s reply and he went on: “Will you give
her to the cold earth decked so showily? That brilliant, silken,
flattering dress, and those richly-gleaming pearls, are too earthly for
death’s bridal, are they not?”
“It makes very little difference what the poor frail body wears, Carl,”
Harris answered, mournfully. “We will bury her as she is.”
He did not stop to count the cost of the dress she wore. There were
plenty more of the same kind in the cases. Then he placed her in the
delicately-wrought coffin, only unclasping a single bracelet from her
rigid arm, to be kept as a remembrance of that dark day.
After that the men saw, or imagined, that Harris grew more stern and
changeless in his work, and more thoughtful in his life, than before.
One night, when they were preparing to leave, he said, “The suspicion
of the colony is aroused; we must keep it up.” Then taking a slip
of paper from his portmanteau, he wrote an order upon it and read it
aloud. It was for a certain amount of handcuffs, hatchets and chains,
to be left at a specified place in the wood, where a quantity of
silver, to their full value, would be found in their stead.
“Which of you will lay this beside the central forge in the foundery
tonight?” he asked, carelessly.
The men drew back, and an involuntary shudder appeared to pass from one
to the other. Is was the first time such a subject had been broached.
Force had never been used with them, and they apparently dreaded the
thought of it.
“Stand up, my brave men,” said Harris, bitterly; “let me see how many
cowards our crew numbers.”
Instantly, as though struck by an electric shock, the eight powerful
men rose to their feet, and eight strong right hands grasped the
sword-hilts by their sides.
Carl’s dark blue eyes looked trustfully into his commander’s face, and
he said, “Signor, the Madonna looks at you from the bright skies; think
you she would not mourn to hear you call the men, that have served you
so long and well, cowards?”
“True, Carl; I was angry and unreasonable. Your girlish manliness makes
me ashamed of myself,” answered Harris; “but I do not like to give up
the idea of frightening the colonists. They saw our little sailer last
night and yester morn, and will be on the lookout for her again. Here,
Roland, I know you are not afraid; take the order, and, to reward you
for going, I promise that the manacles shall never be used on you.”
Then three cheers for little Carl rung out upon the air, and he lifted
the velvet cap from his dark flowing hair, and bowed low to acknowledge
the compliment.
Soon after this, Harris returned to Italy, and Don Jose became
commander of a clipper of his own, Carl accompanying him. After Harris
had arranged his affairs in Italy, so that they no longer needed his
presence, he entirely abandoned the idea of a home on the firm land,
and roamed about wherever fancy dictated or news called him. Upon going
to their hiding-place in Wales, at one time, he saw a girl, habited in
the common dress of Welsh peasants, half sitting, half kneeling, by the
roadside, making wreathes and bouquets from a collection of flowers
beside her, and placing them in a basket on fresh green leaves.
“Buy flowers, sir? buy flowers?” she asked, as he came up.
“Yes,” was the reply, “take all you have; and come with me. I have no
way to carry them without your basket,--come.”
“Pay, sir?” she said, looking into his face with a roguish, merry
smile, making her black eyes dance, and showing her white even teeth.
Harris laughed, threw a bit of money towards her, and walked on. She
gathered up her treasures and followed. They entered the castle, and
every man drank to the health of the pretty flower-girl. She drew back,
trembling, and tried to run away. Harris stopped her, and led her to
a low seat where the sunlight looked in, bidding her go on with her
work, and when that was finished he had plenty more for her to do. She
laughed and pouted, and at last went to work again.
After that she was often at the castle, and at last she too embarked on
the waters, to find a home in the new country. There was a dark rumor
afloat, at the time, of force used to make the wild Cathrin go with the
pirate band; but it was soon forgotton.
After this there were more regular rules observed; only the seven
regular members staying at the Glen and rock, and sometimes only five.
Cathrin was given over to Veale, but why it was that she never saw any
more of Harris she did not know.
One morning the Arabel shot out of the snug little harbor of Lynn, with
all sail set, the whole crew on board, and all their hidden treasures
left in the sole care of Cathrin and the magic rattlesnake. But there
was trouble brewing. Even then one of the king’s cruiser’s was out upon
the watch for the little outlandish craft. They were well matched as to
sailing, but the Britisher’s broadside soon swept away the fore-topmast
of the Arabel. Then she was boarded, a hand-to-hand encounter ensued,
and the pirates, instead of being subdued, triumphed, and took the
others prisoners. This of course, was a flagrant, never-to-be-forgotton
offence; but they kept on their way rejoicing, and at last met Harris
at Wales.
“Where is the little flower-girl?” he asked, as they sat discussing
their business over the flowing wine.
The men looked surprised, and Veale answered, “She is in the cave,
your honor.”
“At the cave!” repeated Harris. “Why! was she willing to go?”
“I don’t know--that is--I didn’t ask her,” answered Veale, stammering
at the thought of Harris’ displeasure.
“Well,” Harris began, “this is worse than I thought would be laid at
our door just yet. You _mean, low, detestable, contemptible wretch_!”
he added, almost fiercely, turning to Veale, “do you know what you
have done? actually stolen the only child of fondly-doting parents,
and now trying to excuse yourself. I carried my mistress there, did I?
But we were married first--married by the rites of a church she loved
and revered; besides which, she left neither parents nor friends to
mourn for her, and went because she wished to. I will return with you,
Veale,” he continued, after a pause, “and bring the birdling back.”
It was long before the Arabel again reached America, and when, at dead
of night, the pirates landed and made their way to the Glen, they were
unnoticed, for the colonists had grown weary with watching, and given
up in despair.
“Will you go home with me, Katy?” Harris said kindly, the next morning,
as they reached the rock and commenced partaking of the provisions
which the nimble fingers set before them.
Tears came to her dancing black eyes, and she answered, firmly, “I am
afraid to go, sir. Can you not bring my mother here?”
Harris smiled, as he asked, “How old are you, Cathrin?”
“Eighteen summers and nineteen winters, sir,” she replied, looking at
him from under her long lashes.
“Indeed!” said Harris, in surprise; “you look less than that.”
A frightened, half-angry look passed her face, as she heard from the
furthest end of the cave the heavy voice of Veale swearing at one of
the men.
“You are not used to profanity, poor child!” he continued, but she did
not reply.
Soon after that another scene came up. Veale had been drinking hard
all day, and at night was fairly intoxicated. As Cathrin came into the
cave, her head crowned with evergreen, and her hands full of flowers,
she heard the merry, musical laugh, which she well knew came from none
but Harris, immediately followed by a volley of oaths, such as she
seldom heard.
“I can drink wine and not suffer for it in that style,” he said, “and
why cannot you? Come, get up, now, or by the powers, I will run you
through--do you hear?” and he brandished his glittering sword in true
buccaneer style.
Veale was lying upon the floor of the cave, apparently not too
insensible to carry on the joke. Cathrin shrunk trembling away, and
commenced clearing the tea-table. Her presence did not act as a
controlling influence, as Arabel’s had. The men are willing to do
anything in reason for the merry girl, however, and the life she led at
the cave was not altogether intolerable.
Months passed, and a little stranger opened his eyes and claimed
protection.
“Who will be thy mother, darling?” Cathrin said, pleasantly, for
she thought she would soon be a spirit. But things were differently
ordered. It was not long before she was out again, at night-fall,
watching for the arrivals.
And now again pictures, darker and more gloomy, arise before our
parti-colored glass.
It was early one bright, autumn morn that Cathrin was kneeling by the
spring, splashing the cool water over the flowers she had gathered,
to keep them fresh, when she heard a low, stifled, wailing cry from
the beautiful couch, where she had left the child. When she reached
it, Veale was walking slowly down the mountain path, and the babe lay
gasping for breath in the sunlight. All the long day did Cathrin chafe
the marble brow and tiny hands of the insensible child, and at night,
when the men returned, she was still holding it in her arms. Harris
looked pityingly upon her, and she laid the little form beside him on
the silken couch. But the bright-eyed stranger’s life had fled. Cathrin
was childless.
Again we leave them for a short time, but their crime is not forgotten.
They are watched constantly. At last three of them were out at sea,
the remaining four were traced to the Glen, and there were taken.
Before they reached the vessel that was to convey them to England one
escaped. Of course it was the daring Veale, who spurned law and order,
and defied pursuit. Harris had been in Italy some time then, and had,
therefore, no means of knowing what was going on. Veale fled to the
rock, but he was not pursued again. Cathrin lost her merry, life-loving
heart and pined in solitude. Veale used to light signal fires upon
rocks to wreck vessels along the coast, and only when she saw him
lighting his dark lantern, and preparing his flaming pine knots, could
she be won from her silent mournfulness. Then she would talk hours
in her thrilling childish way, and sing to him until her clear voice
filled every part of the cavern, and woke the echoes among the gray old
rocks; for she dreaded the idea of feeling that her very life was in
the keeping of one who would so heedlessly destroy others.
“You will not light the treacherous coys this fearful stormy eve?” she
said, pleadingly. “O, I will sing you all the legends of my Welsh home,
and all the songs Roland has taught me, if you will not go now.”
Sometimes she would prevail, and he would sit by the heavy chest that
served them for a table, and laugh at the brilliant fairy tales she
wove from her memories of the dear old home in Wales.
But Cathrin was dying. Day by day her strength was wasting itself away,
her cheek grew paler and thinner, and now a hectic flush burned in lieu
of her former health. Her eyes grew dull and expressionless, and, at
last, she died, her last song just echoing its burden of victory, and
her last glance fixed upon the blue sky and the gorgeous sunset.
Veale mourned for her as deeply as it was in his power to mourn for
any one, but he dared not bury her; he lived in constant fear that he,
or rather the treasures there, would be molested; so he raised her in
his strong arms and bore her to the inner room of the cave, then gently
laid her on the shelving rocks, flung the soft folds of her India
muslin over her pale face and staring black eyes, and went out from the
cave alone, a sterner and more merciless man.
All this time Wallace had been more or less interested in the pirates
and their work. His noble black horse was often urged over the uneven
road by Harris or himself; but now he took himself away and denied all
further knowledge of the procedure. Veale’s provisions were exhausted.
He dared not take the glittering golden coins to exchange for bread, so
he obtained some cheap work, and determined, for the sake of occupying
his mind, to earn his own food. How long he lived thus, we do not care
to tell, but he gave up his business as wrecker, now that Wallace
refused to assist him, and delivered him half the profits of their
eight months treachery.
Now we have told the history of Dungeon Rock up to the year one
thousand six hundred and fifty-eight, at which time the mortal
pilgrimage of Veale was unceremoniously ended by a terrible earthquake,
which closed the ancient entrance to the cavern, and thus shut him
off from light and life with his dearly-loved treasure, and the
superstition-guarded charm and rattlesnake.
From this time forth Dungeon Rock loses its interest and only a
weird-like fascination hanging round it prevented its being entirely
forgotten. It was years before anything more was done there, until,
about forty years ago, a man residing in the town adjoining the one
where the rock stands became impressed, or, as he styled it, dreamed,
that, by going to a certain place in Dungeon Pasture, he could discover
treasures formerly buried by the pirates. He went, as directed, exhumed
the treasure, and the probability is, had he been left to follow his
own impressions, would have used it to open the rock.
As it was, his nearest relatives took the matter up, hushed the stories
that were getting afloat about the money, accused the man of insanity,
and took the _trash_ into their own hands. This seemed to have an undue
effect upon the mind of the man, whose name was Brown.
He had always been singularly nervous and impressible. When young he
could commit a lesson almost at a glance, and recite it with perfect
accuracy. As he grew older, he became morbid and sensitive; would sit
for hours talking or singing, his face lighted up with a strange smile,
which, when he was aroused from his half trance, would pass away, and
he become cross and peevish as before.
After finding the money in Dungeon Pasture, he dwelt more upon such
things than before, and often expressed a determination to run away,--a
threat which he afterward put into execution, finding there was no
way for him to recover his rightful property. He wandered away down
east, where he spent several years, and occasionally told his strange
story. It was by that that he was again discovered and brought back to
his home, where, by bribes and threats, he was induced to leave off
telling the story. He never could be induced to work; for he constantly
averred that he had enough to make him independent, and, if they would
let him alone, he knew where he could find plenty more. He has always
been supported, however, by those who were said to have the management
of what he found; and, upon the death of his last near relative, a
half brother, he was placed in the Ipswich asylum for incurable insane
people, where he will probably remain until his death.
The next movement of consequence was years afterward, when the city of
Lynn was said to have footed the bills for any quantity of ammunition,
to be used for the purpose of making a grand attack upon the obstinate
rock, and forcing it to give up its trust. It proved a failure, and
the city never paid the bills either; but, many a quiet night after
that, sober, respectable men laughed at each other about their fast-day
blow. Their object was to fill the principal crevices with powder, and
have them explode in such a manner as would shatter the rock into a
countless number of pieces, and thus lay open the inside of it, and the
cave, if there were any there.
Some went away satisfied that all had been done that could be, and
there was no treasure there; others, that the original cave and its
contents remained undisturbed but all agreed that they had ventured
their share upon the sea of speculation, and should not try again right
away.
Soon after this, mesmeric clairvoyance became one of the reigning
topics of the day, and almost immediately the interest of Dungeon
Rock was again agitated. This time, one of the world-renowned singing
brothers, Jesse Hutchinson, was the chief actor, directed by a
mesmerized lady, who steadily affirmed the truth of the disconnected
history that had been handed down to them, and added her declarations
to those who had the firmest faith in the old saying of wealth in
Dungeon Cave.
The operations flagged not for days and weeks; and, when at last
Jesse gave it up, not as a delusion, but as a task too hard for him,
others kept on, and made the hole still deeper and broader. But they
too failed, and, for a long time, the hill was undisturbed save by
occasional picnic parties, or Sunday groups of young people, who went
there to enjoy themselves.