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.