CHAPTER XX.
A STRANGE STORY.
“Some nineteen years ago,” said the maiden, “a gentleman, Ralph Moulton by name, was traveling in Italy. He came to Naples, where my mother’s family resided. There were four of them in the household—my grandfather, my two uncles, and my mother. Their names were Count of Lamerack, Gerient and Edwin, and Vivien. She was the darling of their hearts, the light and pride of their eyes. Nothing was too good or too expensive for her, her every wish was gratified, every whim pampered.
“At a fashionable evening party my mother was introduced to this Mr. Moulton, and loved him at once. It was not a mere girlish fancy, but the strong, pure love of her inmost soul. He, in return, professed to reciprocate her affection, and wished to marry her. This her father objected to strongly. He gave as one reason that he could not part with his darling to go so far away. Neither did he wish her to marry a foreigner, no matter how wealthy he might be. She must have a titled gentleman for a husband.
“Mr. Moulton became very angry at this decided refusal of his suit, and vowed he would be revenged, and my mother, in her intense love and passion, at length yielded to her lover’s persuasions, and wedded him in secret.
“The blow was too much for my grandfather, and he died in a fortnight after the discovery of his idol’s disobedience. Upon looking into his affairs, instead of the wealthy nobleman that every one supposed him to be, he was found to be involved to the extent of his whole fortune, and his darling was therefore left penniless. Her brothers had each a small fortune, left them by their father’s brother, which they generously offered to settle upon my mother. But she firmly refused the sacrifice, believing that her husband loved her for herself alone, and would be true to her, though she brought him no dowry.
“She was quickly and cruelly undeceived, however, for he commanded her to accept her brother’s proposition. Again she refused, and he coaxed and threatened to no purpose, until finding it all unavailing, he declared he would have nothing more to do with her, brutally telling her that he did not love her, and had only been attracted to her by her resemblance to one whom he had loved a few years before. Moreover, he said that their marriage was only a farce; that he hoped by making her father believe they were married, he would be willing to forgive her, acknowledge him, and settle his fortune upon them. Now that she had no money, and would not take what was offered her, he was tired of her, and never wished to see her again. He left her in her weakness and despair, and she never saw his face again.
“My uncles were furious, and vowed the deepest vengeance upon the villain; they tried to prove the marriage legal, but the brute had cunningly planned the affair, and removed every trace and proof of its legality. After a tedious search they at length found the man who had performed the ceremony. He was a poor monk, who had been confined in a mad-house by this villain, and, on his death-bed, sent for a clergyman and confessed the whole story.
“In the meantime I was born, and my mother died of a broken heart.
“I was put out to nurse until I was old enough to go to school, when I entered a convent, and there received my education, during which time my uncles were constantly searching after the wretch who had so wronged their sister.
“As I told you before, they spent all their money, and then in their desperation joined this band, all of whom swore to help each other in their troubles. About six years ago, while on duty in the United States, they accidentally discovered my unnatural father living in the most luxurious manner imaginable. They were witnesses of an event which was likely to affect him injuriously in the future, and treasured it up, hoping to use it against him. From that day to this they have followed him, tracking every step, until at last he has strangely come to the very place of all others they most wished him to come, and, they trust, a few days, or weeks at most, will give them their long sought triumph.
“Perhaps you think it strange that I so love and cling to my uncles; but I do love them dearly, despite what they have come to be. They have been both father and mother to me, and are ever gentle and tender. I will not leave them, and go forth into the world, where I know I should find more congenial associations, for I feel that my love keeps them from committing many crimes which otherwise they might be led into.”
“You are as noble as you are beautiful!” exclaimed Robert, in admiration, as the fair girl finished her narrative, to which he had listened with breathless interest.
“Nay,” she replied, blushing deeply at his earnest words and gaze; “you forget how lonely I should be had I no one to love, or who loved me. They are all the relatives I have in the world.”
“True; but this is no fit place for such as you to live in, and among all these rough villains, too.”
“Oh, but I never see any but the chief and my uncles, unless it is, in such instances as yours, where I go to entertain with my poor efforts some poor person who has been taken captive.”
“I need not tell you, my gentle friend, that blessings will ever follow you for your kind ministrations,” exclaimed Robert, enthusiastically. “And I trust,” he added, “the time may soon come when you may be liberated, and know earth’s brightest joys.”
“I fear the sun will never brighten my pathway in life,” she returned, with a sigh, “for my destiny lies underground.”
She shuddered as she spoke, and grew ashy pale.
Robert regarded her in silence for a moment, then asked, gently:
“Will you tell me why you fear this?”
The question recalled her to herself, and she flushed a deep crimson, and buried her face in her fair hands.
Our hero regarded her wonderingly, but did not press her for a reply.
Presently she uncovered her face, and, without looking up, said:
“The chief is not willing I should leave this place, at least, until he sees fit to remove me himself.”
The truth flashed upon Robert at once. He realized that that great rough man wished to appropriate this delicate and lovely blossom to himself. His very soul revolted at the thought, and he inwardly vowed that if ever he escaped, his first duty should be to set at liberty this suffering maiden.
“Cannot your uncles protect you from a fate like this?” he at length asked.
“They would if they dared; but you doubtless realize that they, too, are in his power. He has but to say the word and they die, and in that case my lot would be a hundred-fold worse.”
“Cowardly wretch! Let me but regain my liberty, and I swear before Heaven I will put to rout this miserable gang of thieves!” said Robert, passionately.
“You would do a noble act, for others suffer as well as myself. I am in no immediate danger, for my uncles have made the chief take an oath that he will not press his attentions until I am of age. But I pray Heaven that I may die before that time. I will die! for I will never, never be that bad man’s wife!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and in a voice of agony.
“You shall not, my dear friend—my sister, let me call you, for I have none of my own. I promise you that it shall never be.”
She shook her head sadly, and heaved a deep sigh.
“I thank you, but I fear your efforts will prove unavailing. I thank you, too, for giving me the sweet name of sister. You forget that I am the daughter of the man whom you say has wronged you deeply, do you not?”
“I do forget it, as I trust you yourself do. For no such brute has a right to claim so pure a being for his child.”
She smiled archly as she replied:
“Silence, flatterer, though your words are very sweet to me, and I am only too proud to regard you by so dear a tie.”
“Do you never feel lonely here with no companions of your own age and sex?” asked Robert, eager to turn her thoughts into a different channel.
“Oh, no! I have plenty of company. Come and you shall see.”
She bounded lightly from her seat, and moving quickly to a curtain of purple velvet, and sweeping it aside, revealed a glass door.
She motioned Robert to conceal himself among the folds of the drapery and glance within the room beyond.
He obeyed, and saw six lovely girls almost as lovely as his companion, elegantly dressed, and seated in different parts of the room, and laughing and chatting pleasantly, though upon every face he could trace lines of sorrow.
“They are my companions and my charges,” she said, gazing fondly upon them. “I am, as it were, their ‘mother abbess.’ For I protect them from all harm and unpleasant attentions from the band. My word is law here, and no person can enter their presence without my permission. It is my compact with the chief that I will remain here cheerfully so long as he allows these innocent girls to remain innocent and unmolested. So you see that this must be my home, and that I have my duties here, and I assure you that I am happy in being allowed to do even this much good. Come away now, please, for I would not have you discovered by my friends.”
She led him back to his seat, first carefully drawing the curtains over the door.
“How came these beautiful girls in this place?” he asked, more and more surprised with what he saw.
“They were stolen by different members of the band from their homes. You perceive that everything is done here to render life beautiful and attractive. When the band are at liberty they wish to be amused, and these young girls, with myself, play, sing, and read to them just as they desire. We always assemble in the drawing-room, and sometimes we have dancing, and sometimes merely conversation. Though we know that we are associating with the worst characters the world affords, yet at these times a stranger would think he was among the very first people of the country. The conversation is refined and elevating; no word or act is ever allowed that could wound the most delicate or fastidious. This is the way I have managed to guard and protect my sisters, as I call them. Nearly all of them are of noble birth, and would prefer death to dishonor. I live in the hope that I may yet be the means of returning them pure and spotless to their mourning friends.”
“You are an angel,” burst involuntarily from Robert’s lips as she finished speaking. “Now please tell me your name. That I consider an important omission in your story.”
“Sure enough,” she laughed, “though you already know it, for I was named for my mother. I am called Vivien Lamerack, but I suppose my true name is Vivien Moulton. They tell me I am very like my poor mother.”
Robert’s eyes plainly said that he thought her mother must have been a very beautiful woman, but he asked:
“Who was that dark-eyed little fairy in yonder room, who was playing with a pet kitten?”
“Ah! you noticed her, did you?” said Vivien, with a smile. “She is my darling, my pride, my second self. Her name is Enid Chichester, an English lady, who was taken from a ship that fell into the hands of the band. Her father was killed in helping the crew defend the vessel. He was her only relative, and she is left all alone in the world. Mr. Chichester was very wealthy, and she is, of course, his heiress. The band have long been trying to get possession of her wealth, but unsuccessfully as yet. Could my darling but regain her liberty she would be one of the richest ladies of her country.”
“Poor, unfortunate girls! I little imagined such wickedness was going on so near our quiet institute, or I should not have enjoyed my years of study so fully. It is very strange this retreat has never been discovered,” said Robert, thoughtfully.
“People do mistrust that the smugglers have a den, but all their efforts to discover it have proved fruitless. The entrances are so cleverly concealed that it would take a great deal of searching to discover them. I have been told there is one person who has an inkling of its whereabouts; but it may be only a story.”
“Do you and your companions never go out to enjoy a breath of fresh air or the sunshine?”
“Oh, yes, frequently. There is an underground passage to the sea, and we often go out for a sail, but always dressed like high-born ladies, and accompanied by some of the band richly clad as gentlemen, so that any one to see us would think we were some of the gentry out on a pleasure excursion. In the same way we often go out horseback riding, though we are never allowed to go where it is thickly settled, lest some of us should give the alarm. We are carefully guarded at all times, and every precaution taken to conceal our identity. Now,” she added, looking up at Robert, archly, “I have gossiped long enough, so please take your turn and tell me about yourself. I am getting impatient to know all about you.”
Robert, in return, related all that the reader already knows about him, much to the wonder and indignation of his fair listener, who mourned from the very depths of her pure heart that she was the child of a man who was so vile in all his acts and intentions; whose only desire seemed to be to work out revenge and the unhappiness of others.