Part 2

“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.