University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
A DISCLOSURE.

We descended two long, narrow
flights of stairs, which brought us one
story below the level of the earth.—
What the ground apartment of the tower
contained, I do not know, for we did
not enter it, but kept outside in the secret
passage. At the foot of the second
descent, we came to an iron door, which,
on being opened by the Count's directions,
admitted us to a small apartment,
walled in with heavy stones, and paved
with flags. An iron lamp was attached
to the ceiling by a chain, so as to be
lowered or raised. We lowered and
lighted it, which enabled us to see very
distinctly. Nothing particularly attracted
our attention, save three iron doors, two
of which were close together on the
side opposite our entrance, and the other
occupied a central position in the wall
to the right. While looking around us,
we heard something like a groan, though
either distant, muffled, or feeble we could
not tell which.

“Come,” said Harley, who still retained
his hold upon the Count, “I suppose
that sound proceeds from your victim—show
us to him!”

“This way;” and the Count advanced
to one of the two doors near
together, while we all eagerly followed,
Viola faintly murmuring;

“My father! my poor father!”

“The key hangs by the door,” said
the Count.

Harley found it, and soon had the
door open, disclosing a small crypt, with
a grated door between us and the prisoner.
The open space between the
two doors had some connection with
the chamber above, and was doubtless
contrived to admit air to the tenant of
the cell, for there appeared to be no
other means of ventilation.

“Here, Harry,” said Harley, “take
charge of the Count, while I set free
the prisoner.”

I laid my hand on D'Estang, and
Harley entered the crypt with his lantern.

The grated door was secured by
bolts, that could easily be removed from
without. In less than a minute, I heard
my friend say:

“Henry St. Auburn, you are free.”

“What means this? to whom am I
indebted for this liberation?” said a voice
from within.

“Your daughter will explain all,”
replied Harley; “she is without here
—come;” and the next moment Harley
reappeared, followed by a man some
forty-five or fifty years of age, with iron-gray
hair, a rather robust frame, and
strongly marked features.

I had only time to observe this much,
when Viola, with a cry of “Father!
dear, dear father!” sprang forward,
threw her arms around his neck, and
wept upon his breast.

“Will some one be so good as to explain
the meaning of all this?” said
St. Auburn, looking from one to the
other, with an air of perplexity, but exhibiting
less affection for his daughter
than was consonant with my feelings.

“It means, dear father,” replied
Viola, looking up into his face, with
her beautiful arms still clasped around
his neck, “that the man you have
thought your friend has proved himself
your enemy; and that the man you
have considered your enemy, has proved
himself your friend.”

“I know who has proved himself my
enemy,” rejoined St. Auburn, looking
fiercely at the Count, who stood pale
and silent, biting his lips; “but who is
he that has proved himself my friend,
in this hour of need?”

“Behold him!” said Viola, pointing
to Harley, who, with his arms folded on
his breast, stood near, calmly, but somewhat
sternly, regarding St. Auburn.

“Sir, you are a stranger to me, but—”
began St. Auburn, looking at Harley,
who interrupted:

“Nay, sir, I am no stranger, but one
too well known;” and with the words
he removed his wig, mustache, and
whiskers, adding: “You recognize me
now, Mr. St. Auburn?”

“Ha, Harley!” cried St. Auburn,
with a start, changing countenance.

“Yes, a despised Harley,” returned
my friend, with not a little asperity.

“I do not understand this,” said St.
Auburn, with an air of wonder.

“This way, father, I will explain all,”
returned Viola, quickly; and she drew
St. Auburn aside, and spoke to him hurriedly,
for a few minutes, in a low
tone.

The Count regarded the two, while
they were conversing apart, with a peculiar
expression. His brows contracted,
a sneer played around his mouth, and
once or twice he seemed on the point
of speaking, but withheld the atterance,
and remained silent.

At length St. Auburn advanced to
Harley, and proffered his hand.

“Sir! Mr. Harley,” he said, “I feel
I have done you great injustice. My
daughter—”

“Bah!” sneered D'Estang: “speak
the truth, and shame the Father of Lies!
—you know she is not your daughter.”

“Not his daughter?” exclaimed Harley,
catching at the word: “Not his
daughter, Count D'Estang?”

“No, she is not his daughter.”

“Silence!” interposed St. Auburn,
fiercely.

“Nay, speak!” cried Harley, while
we all stood breathless with surprise.
“Speak! Count—you shall be heard.
I know he has not treated her as a father
should treat a daughter—but still I
knew not that she is not his own flesh
and blood.”

“Look at the two—do you see any
resemblance?” said D'Estang with
another sneer.

“But that goes for nothing, Count,
unless you have other proof,” replied
Harley.

“Silence, villain!” cried St. Auburn,
looking fiercely at the Count. “Dare
to open your vile lips—”

“Hold!” interrupted Harley; “I am
master here, and the Count shall have
a hearing.”

“Oh! what new and fearful mystery
is this?” now cried Viola, looking from
one to the other for explanation.

“She is not his daughter,” persisted
D'Estang, “and he knows it. The secret

he made known to me for a consideration;
but since I am foiled, he
shall no longer have the advantage
of it.”

“Is this true, father? is this true?”
cried Viola, addressing St. Auburn.

“Believe it not, Viola—it is an invention
of his own,” replied St. Auburn,
not a little agitated.

“Look at his face, and be your own
judges,” rejoined D'Estang.

Harley now took Viola aside, and
held a short conference with her; then
he returned to the group, and she remained
apart.

“This is all very strange, and I should
like a clearing up of the mystery,” he
said, addressing the Count.

“And I can give it in a few words,”
replied D'Estang. “Henry St. Auburn
had a daughter—”

“Mr. Harley,” interrupted St. Auburn,
“that he who passes for Count
D'Estang is a villain of the worst type,
I think you have already had sufficient
evidence; and if the tale of my disgrace
must be told, let it come from my
lips.”

“Say on, then!” returned Harley.

“Not here, Mr. Harley—not here.
Set me at liberty, and I swear to you
you shall have the truth, and the benefit
of the truth. D'Estang knows only
what I have told him, and he has already
abused my confidence. Since
matters have gone so far, I may as well
state, that she who is called Viola St.
Auburn, is not my daughter, and that
whoever weds her will wed an heiress
of great wealth. This is the true reason
why Monsieur D'Estang has sought
to force her into an alliance with himself.”

“To accomplish which vile measure,
you scrupled not to lend your assistance,”
rejoined Harley.

“In part, Mr. Harley, I confess; but
that I refused to second all his base
plans, my imprisonment here is proof
sufficient.”

“Did you not force her to come hither,
with no other motive than to marry
her to D'Estang?”

“I persuaded her to come, in the
hopes that I could prevail upon her to
give him her hand in marriage, though
I was not then aware of his being such
a villain,” replied St. Auburn.

“As for villainy, I fear there is not
much to choose between you,” replied
Harley sternly. “You, at least, I know
of old; and it will require much at your
hands, to cause me to overlook your
treatment of my father, or your insults
to me personally—more especially, since
your own lips have informed me you
are not the father of Viola.”

“I trust, Mr. Harley,” replied St.
Auburn, with a penitent look, “you
will not recall the past; and for the future—”

“He will be as great a villain as ever,”
chimed in D'Estang, interrupting him.
“Put no faith in what he says, Mr.
Harley—for the penitence he now exhibits,
proceeds from fear, not regret.
He is a villain, without manhood—a
base, paltry coward, who will fawn
when he is in your power, and bite
when you are in his.”

On hearing this, St. Auburn raised
his elenched hand, and aimed a blow at
the Count, which I parried.

“Would you strike a defenceless
man?” cried I, indignantly; “do you
not see that D'Estang is bound?”

“Attempt the like again,” said Harley,
fiercely, grasping the arm of St.
Auburn, “and you shall back to your
dungeon.”

“I crave pardon! I was rash,” returned
St. Auburn, cowering.

“You see,” said D'Estang—“I spoke
the truth.”

“Silence!” commanded Harley, “and
let recrimination cease! And now, Mr.
St. Auburn, speak the truth, and say
for what reason you were imprisoned
here.”

“I was about to do so,” replied the
other. “It was because I would not
consent to force Viola to wed this man,”
pointing to D'Estang. “Base as I am,
I never intended to exercise over her
any power beyond earnest entreaty. I
told her she might choose between him
and a convent; and I would have made
my word good, and removed her ere

this, had I not been decoyed to this
dungeon, and thrust into that cell by
force. I will not deny that my motive
in bringing her here was so far base,
that I was to receive a certain sum of
money the moment she should become
his bride; but when, after getting her
here, I found how repugnant it was to
her feelings to think of wedding such a
man, even to be mistress of all he owns,
I resolved to take her away at any sacrifice.
The world has not gone well
with me, Mr. Harley. Not long since
I lost a fortune, and a wife that I prized
above every thing earthly. Circum-stances
made me desperate. In an evil
hour I met Monsieur D'Estang, and the
bargain and sale was consummated, in
so much that it only required the consent
of Viola to make the contract effective.
That I acted right in doing as I
have done, I do not pretend to say—but
I am not more guilty than I have made
appear.”

“But why did you wish Viola to
marry the Count in the first place?” inquired
Harley.

“Because I then thought him a gentleman;
and because, also, he pledged
himself to pay me twenty thousand dollars
on her wedding-day. I had a contract
to this effect, which he has since
taken from me.”

“And when this contract was entered
into, did he know that she is not your
daughter?”

“Yes, I had previously told him the
secret of her parentage.”

“And who, sir, are my parents?”
cried Viola, in no little agitation, she
having drawn close to the speaker without
being observed.

“I thank Heaven, St. Auburn is not
one of them!” rejoined Harley. “But
dearest Viola, you were to remain apart,”
he continued, chidingly.

“But think you, Morton, I have no
interest in this matter?”

“Great interest, my dear Viola; but
I would have reported all to you.”

“Nay, Morton, I pray you let me
hear for myself.”

Harley assented, and again addressed
himself to St. Auburn.

“What motive had the Count for
binding himself to give you so large a
sum on the day that Viola should become
his wife?”

“I have said that she is an heiress to
great wealth,” was the reply.

“Well, and if so, why did you sell
her for such a sum? Why did you
not make known to her her history, and
trust to her generosity to reward you?”

“To tell you the plain truth, Mr.
Harley, I knew she was engaged to
you, and I feared, if she became possessed
of the secret of her birth, she
would spurn my control, and place herself
and fortune wholly in your hands.”

“Ah! sir, (I cannot call you father,
since you disown the tie of consanguinity,)
how much you mistake my
nature,” returned Viola, her eyes filling
with tears. “Had you made me a
confidant, instead of another, and consented
to my wedding the man of my
choice, I would have placed my fortune,
whatever it may be, at your disposal.”

“It is only another instance of villainy
overreaching itself,” rejoined Harley,
in a severe tone.

“But tell me, sir—oh! tell me who
I am?” pursued Viola, with great emotion.
“Oh! I am bewildered—I know
not what to think, or how to act! And
is it possible that she I so loved, and
called by the endearing title of mother
—is it possible she was no kin of
mine? and could she have known this,
and never have told me?”

“My poor Mary!” returned St. Auburn,
not a little affected; “she was
indeed no kin to you, Viola; but she
knew it not; she believed to the last
you were her daughter.”

“Oh! this is a fearful mystery, sir!”
continued Viola; “I pray you make it
clear! Tell me—oh! sir, tell me—
who are my parents? are they living?
and how came I estranged from them?
Perhaps—”

She paused—a wild, troubled expression
swept over her beautiful features—a
cold shudder seemed to pass
through her frame, and placing her
hand upon her heart, as if to still its
throbbings, she fairly gasped for breath.

“Viola! dear, dearest Viola!” cried
Harley, springing to and supporting
her with his arm; “what means this
agitation?”

“You at least have nothing to blush
for,” said St. Auburn, who appeared
to understand what she wished yet
feared to know.

On hearing this Viola drew a long
breath of relief, and murmured:

“Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!”

“Come,” said Harley, gently drawing
her aside again—“you must no
longer be a listener, Viola—the subject
too deeply interests you. Leave all to
me, dearest—leave all to me;” and
after a few more words with her, he returned
to St. Auburn, and said, in a low
tone: “I beg, sir, that you will put me
in possession of the facts of this business
at once!”

“Not here,” was the reply: “set
me at liberty, and I will.”

“But you may break your word,
when you no longer have any thing to
gain by the disclosure. I might have
known nothing now, only for the
Count.”

“You would in time, Mr. Harley;
but I should have made my own terms
for the secret.”

“And what would have been your
terms?”

“The same as agreed to by this
treacherous Frenchman.”

“It is a large sum, but I do not wish
to take any undue advantage of you.
Prove what you have asserted, and I
pledge you the honor of a gentleman,
that you shall have the amount named.”

“Ah! sir,” cried St. Auburn, rapturously,
“you are a true gentleman, I
see; I was mistaken in you; your
hand, Mr. Harley.”

“Pardon me!” returned my friend,
drawing himself up with an air of reserve.
“I am a little peculiar in some
respects; and one of my peculiarities
is, that I only give my hand where I
can give my heart. This is merely a
business transaction, Mr. St. Auburn.
There is not, there never can be, any
friendship between us.”

The countenance of St. Auburn fell;
while the Count chimed in, with a curl
of his thin lips:

“Ay, keep him at a safe distance,
Mr. Harley.”

“Well, free me from this hateful confinement,”
rejoined St. Auburn, quickly
—“take me from the presence of my
treacherous confederate here, (pointing
to D'Estang, who only smiled scornfully,)
and I will keep my word with
you.”

“I owe you this much,” said Harley,
“because, however vile your intentions
were, you used no actual force
with Viola. Were it otherwise, sir,
you should now be punished according
to your deserts.”

“Give not to so vile a man the sum
named,” interposed D'Estang. “As to
his secret, it is in my possession, Mr.
Harley; and if you wish, you shall
have it for the asking. I would at
least do this much to revenge myself on
him for his insults—since, at present, it
is not in my power to do more.”

“But he has not the proofs,” said
St. Auburn, eagerly; “and what is the
secret without proof to support it? I
can prove Viola to be what I assert—
but—”

“And where are these proofs?” interrupted
Harley.

“Not here, I assure you. No, I determined,
for fear of treachery, to retain
a hold upon the interest of D'Estang,
till he should fulfil his part of the agreement.”

“Bah! what matters proofs, when
the secret is divulged?” sneered the
Count.

“Hold!” said Harley. “To save
further discussion of the matter, let me
assure you both that I shall keep my
word. If St. Auburn does what he
says he will do, he shall have the
amount named, whether the secret is
divulged by another or not. I have
pledged my honor to this, and I trust I
am too much of a gentleman not to redeem
it.”

“You can do as you like,” returned
D'Estang, tartly, biting his lips.

“Thank you for the permission,”
rejoined my friend, drily. “And now,

Monsieur le Capitaine, I will trouble
you to tell me what the door next to
this cell conceals?”

“Another cell like it.”

“Very good; then there is one for
you, and one for Mistress Anne here.”

“Oh! sir, are you going to imprison
me also?” cried Anne.

“Yes,” replied Harley, abruptly;
and going to the door in question, he
took down the key which hung by it,
and opened it. Then approaching Anne,
he whispered something in her ear;
and without a word, she followed him
into the inner cell. “Be not alarmed,”
I heard him say to her; “your kind
master will doubtless release you the
moment he regains his own liberty;”
and coming out, he locked the heavy
iron door, and returned the key to its
place. “And now,” he added, addressing
the Count, “your lordship will
be so good as to take the place of your
late prisoner. It is very unpleasant, I
doubt not; but no frowns, good my
lord, for it must be so.”

The Count bit his lip, and as he
turned to enter the dungeon, muttered
something in a low tone.

“By-the-bye,” said Harley, tapping
him on the shoulder, “I suppose that
other door, yonder, opens into the secret
passage under ground, by which
you sometimes enter and leave this very
agreeable abode?”

“Well?” said D'Estang, turning upon
him quickly, his black eyes gleaming
with suppressed rage.

“Oh, that is all,” returned Harley,
coolly. “If I had time, I should like
to explore it, but shall put off that
pleasure for the present. Be a little
cautious, Monsieur le Capitaine, or I
may take the liberty to return with a
few individuals who will be even more
curious in looking over your Villé than
I have been.”

“But I thought,” said the Count,
turning pale, “that there was a certain
agreement between us, that—”

“Oh, never fear, sir, but I will keep
my word,” interrupted Harley. “I
am only giving you a little caution, lest
you should break yours. Remember,
you are not to seek to molest us;” and
Harley fixed his eyes upon D'Estang,
with an expression that said more than
his language. “That will do,” he continued:
“we understand each other, I
think. Be kind enough to step in there
now—for time passes, and we would be
on the road without more delay.”

Having secured the Count as it were
in his own trap, locked both doors, and
returned the key to its place, Harley
approached St. Auburn, and said:

“Now, sir, as I am about to set you
free, which is more than you deserve,
and as it is very uncertain what may
happen after you regain your liberty,
I wish you to state who are the parents
of Viola—where they can be found,
if living—how she came to be brought
up as your own daughter—in short, say
all you know concerning her, as also
when and where I can have the proofs
to which you have alluded.”

“The story is long,” replied St. Auburn,
with some hesitation; “but I
think I can satisfy you in a few words;”
and drawing my friend aside, the two
conversed together for a few minutes in
a low tone.

My curiosity was excited to learn
the secret also; but perceiving it was
not intended for my ear as yet, I approached
Viola, whom I found in tears.

“Oh! Mr. Walton, this mystery
makes me very unhappy,” she said.

I was saying what I could to console
her, when Harley rejoined us. His
countenance was bright and animated,
and I knew by this he had heard good
news.

“Pardon me, my friends,” he said,
taking each of us by the hand, “that I
do not now make you my confidants.
For a certain time I have promised secrecy
in regard to what I have just
heard; but should it prove true, I am the
happiest of mortals. Cheer up, dear
Viola! all, I trust, will yet be well; but
whether true or false, my dear Viola, I
can never be unhappy while we are
together. Come, let us leave this place at
once, ere any thing occurs to prevent.”

And he forthwith led Viola up the
stairs, St. Auburn and I following.