The Silver Bottle; or, The Adventures of Little Marlboro in Search of His Father

by J. H. Ingraham

  `Unquestionably.'

  Mr. Beufort looked towards me and smiled encouragingly and well pleased; but I dared not indulge the hopes struggling with a thousand fears in my bosom.

  `Can you tell me who belong to the existing family of the Duke?'

  `Every member of it,' answered the Herald confidently; turning to another volume and running his eye over a catalogue of initial letters. He then opened to the page to which the list referred, and among numerous names of the house, I discovered, with what emotions I cannot express, that of

  `FERDINAND RUNDEL ARLBOROUGH,' SECOND SON OF THE DUKE OF ARLBOROUGH, Born January 6, 1802.

  `That must be he who signed himself F. R. Marlborough. He doubtless perflxed the `M.' for disguise,' said Mr. Beufort. `Is he living now, Mr. Usher?'

  `He is—but I believe dwells abroad. Some years ago there was a misunderstanding of some kind between him and his father the Duke, and he has resided out of England ever since.'

  `This fact strengthens your cause, sir,' said Mr. Beufort, turning to me and grasping my hand. `Further investigation will, I am satisfied, prove your near relationship to this person. To-morrow morning,' he added to me as we left the Herald's Hall, not being able to learn any thing further from the Usher, `you shall go with me in my carriage to visit the Duke. I have met him often on committees and am known to him! We will see what we can learn there.'

  In the morning, therefore, I shall depart from London on this visit. Its result shall be duly communicated by the next packet.

  Yours truly, `LITTLE MARLBORO'.'

  CHAPTER III.

  Arlborough Castle, Northumberland, - August 2, 1844.

  My last letter, it will be remembered, left me on the eve of my departure for the seat of the Duke of Arlborough in company with my friend Mr. Beaufort, for the purpose of following up the investigation which had terminated at the Herald's office. From the date of the present letter, it will be seen that I write from the place to which we were destined. Yes, within the walls and beneath the roof which I firmly believe to belong to the house of my fathers, I address this letter to those who have taken an interest thus far in my fate. With what emotions too I write! With what a trembling of the hand and throbbing of the heart! Yet all is uncertain and doubtful. Nothing is revealed—nothing established to enable me to decide. Yet enough has been discovered to fill me with hope and to lead me to believe that before twenty-four hours elapse I shall have found out who are my parents!

  I write in front of a deep gothic window which looks forth upon an extensive park. A league of grand old oaks covering dale and upland stretch away before me, with here and there an open lawn in which deer are browsing. Farther away still, peep from between two green hills a tower and a spire, the latter like a needle of silver pointing man to his home above and indicating to him the way. The tower is a huge ancient pile half-ruinous and marks the site of what was once a cathedral. In the distance swell up blue misty hills with here and there a sharp, bold peak piercing the sky. A glittering river winds through the valley of oaks, and all around is visible one wide scene of beauty. And all this vast domain appertains to the lord of this noble castle, who — but I forbear to anticipate! Twenty-four hours will reveal all! In twenty-four hours all my hopes will be realised or forever crushed!

  The room in which I am writing is a noble specimen of the gorgeous chambers of the Elizabethan age. It occupies the interior of a spacious tower, and like it is six sided. It is hung with drapery, which is richly ornamented with the work of the needle, representing field sports, hawking and fishing scenes, and one or two battle subjects in which mounted knights with visors closed are tilting at each other with long lances. The furniture is of a very ancient and imposing character, being of black wood, elaborately carved, the chairs being covered with embroidery. There are little ebony secretaries inlaid with ivory, beaulets, bureaus, desks, supported by the feet of lions, and other articles for which I have no name, all of curious forms and of the most antique and elaborate style of construction. There is in particular a large chair in which I am now seated, the back of which rises high above the head and projects over the sitter in the form of a canopy surmounted by a ducal crown. Upon the crown is perched an eagle of gold holding in his talons a serpent which he seems to be in the act of strangling. When I compare the device upon the Silver Bottle, which I always carry with me and now have before me upon the table, with this, I cannot describe the emotions that occupy my bosom. The one is the exact connter-part of the other; and it would be more extraordinary if there should be no connection between the two than if there should prove eventually to be the closest; noble as is the proud family which claims this armorial sign, humble as I am, without name, country or friends! nay, but have I but one friend, Dame Darwell my kind foster-mother! I have another tried friend too in Mr. Beufort! With what anxious, feverish tumult of hopes and fears I look forward to the morrow! I will try to banish this solicitude by recording what has past up to this moment.

  It was a beautiful morning when we left London. The sun never shone brighter, and I looked upon his enlivening presence as a bright harbinger of the future. After getting clear of the thronged streets, of the crowded suburbs, we entered upon a magnificent turnpike along which our four post horses flew at the rate of twelve miles an hour. We were whirled past countless picturesque country seats which lined the road, some half hid in foliage, others open to the view in the midst of some lawn; others buried deeper in the country amid the stately seclusion of olden parks. Some of them were pointed out to me by Mr. Beufort as the summer abodes of several distinguished men, such as Sir Robert Peel, Lord Brougham, the Earl of Lennox, and others. We also passed in the course of the morning `a box,' as it is called, where Lord Wellington used to sojourn for a few weeks of the season, and also the seat of Lord Cornwallis, who surrendered to Washington. We traversed many quiet villages, picturesque and venerable, with moss grown roofs, centurial trees, and ancient churches, looking, as all English villages look, as if they stood as they stand now in the days of King John and bold Robin Hood. There is a repose and an air of royal peace about these old English villages that are peculiarly inviting, and awaken in the bosom of the observer a hundred agreeable emotions of domestic happiness and seclusion. There were no new frame houses, new fences, piles of lumber about the quiet streets, characteristics of all our growing American villages. The English towns look as if they were built and finished hundreds of years ago.

  I have now an incident to record of the deepest interest to me as every one will acknowledge who has followed me through my adventures. We arrived at noon to dine and change horses at a pretty rural village, on the banks of one of the loveliest rivers I ever saw—a river that might have adorned the fields of Eden; for lovelier, greener lawns, more majestic oaks, more secluded groves, more shady copses and sunny uplands, more romantic islands, more enchanting meadows with grazing herds and bounding deer, interspersing and animating all, never have been, or will be found on earth.'

  The inn at which we stopped was a large old rambling pile that had entertained cavalcades of Knights, and as the host informed us, had once in olden times the honor of entertaining Queen Bess and her train. It looked large enough to accommodate a hundred persons, yet it was but one story in height, but it covered with its countless out-houses nearly a good English acre. Before the door, over which the eaves of the roof projected full eight feet, grew two enormous and majestic oaks such as Druids in the pagan ages of the Island chose for the scenes of their mystic rites. They flung their gigantic branches not only over two thirds of the moss covered roof of the Inn, but over half the village street. Between them stood a stone pump carved with grotesque visages, and under the spout was a hospitable trough, at which a score of traveler's horses might quench their thirst together. The pump bore the date, in quaint old letters, of 1538. On one of the oaks was a plate, saying that it was planted in 1375. Every thing in England reminds one of the past. In America all that we behold raises in the mind the idea of t
he future! These two emotions give complexion to the characteristics which distinguish the two nations.

  We alighted from our carriage and entered the Inn. The host had come out to receive us, and to welcome us with a degree of hospitality in his looks, tones and manner that made us feel at home in his house. I am sorry to say that this manner of receiving travelers is peculiar to the landlords of English Inns. At American country Inns, the traveler if received at all, is received by the ostler who takes his horse. He enters the bar-room and finds several persons seated about. All stare at him, and he looks round for the landlord. Finally he asks for him, and one of the persons in his shirt sleeves seated at his ease among the group, with his feet upon a barrel, it may be, leisurely gets up and replies that he is the personage, with a look as if he did not like to be intruded upon. On the contrary the English host meets you as you descend from your carriage with a smile, escorts you into his best room, with a pleasant word, politely, and looking as if he really desired to make you comfortable, asks what you will have; and while you remain under his roof, he never intermits for a moment his attention to your comfort. But this is a digression.

  We were ushered into a neat, old fashioned parlor with an oaken floor polished like brass; white curtains draped the little ancient windows, and a fire place, in which an English ox might lie down without inconvenience, occupied half of one side of the room. Comfortable old-fashioned arm chairs, stuffed or cushioned, stood around inviting the weary traveler to rest his body in their capacious and luxurious embrace.

  We ordered dinner and I walked out to look at the village, and survey the exterior of an Inn which I was told by Mr. Beufort was a fine specimen of the old English hotel. As I passed along the front, I turned to take a view of its root with its numerous angular projections, turrets, and tower-like elevations, when my eyes were arrested by a female figure in one of the windows. The side of the person was turned to me, and a bonnet and veil concealed her face; but my heart bounded with that instinctive recognition in which love is never at fault! I knew that but one person in the world had that air, attitude, and figure! But how could Emma be in England? Yet I was convinced that I beheld her standing in the window. She was in conversation with a gentleman advanced in years.—His face was towards me, and I saw with increased hope that the features were American. At this moment an empty post-chaise drew up at the door. She turned and glanced out of the window at it, raising her veil as she did so. It was the lovely face of Emma Field, every lineament of which was engraven upon heart, soul, and memory!

  I stood transfixed to the spot without power of motion. I was making an effort to realize that I was waking and not dreaming, for such an unexpected vision in England seemed as if it should belong rather to dreams than the realities of life! She directed her eyes towards me, for I was in full view of the window not ten paces off. Perhaps my attitude of surprise and bewilderment led her to observe me attentively. As I felt her gaze upon me the blood mounted to my cheek and brow! Our eyes met. She recognised me with a start and an exclamation! I saw with deep, unutterable joy, that the exclamation was one of pleasurable surprise. She looked a second time, smiled with a blushing, animated countenance, nodded and her lips moved. Her looks, nevertheless, expressed surprise at beholding me; while mine were bent on her filled with adoration and trembling hopes.

  The Postilions of the coach drawn up at the door now mounted their horses, and at the same moment the American gentleman came forth with a lady I had seen in the coach with Emma in Boston, leaning upon his arm. Emma was following them attended by Russel Carryl. My pride and natural sensitiveness would have led me to shrink from observation, but a nervous desire to know if she really despised me, and wished no longer to recognise one whom I had no doubt she knew to be regarded by men with infamy, led me involuntarily to advance towards her as as she was about to enter the post-chaise. Her foot was upon the step, when she hurriedly glanced around as if in search of some one. Her eyes met mine. They must instinctively have translated their sad and hopeless expression, for she smiled brightly though stealthily upon me with a smile full of hope, for me and my love's daring ambition.

  The next instant she was borne from my sight seated opposite Russel Carryl! The sight of this young man whose baseness had led me to resign from the Navy, and whom I had even in boyhood battled with on account of Emma Field, the sight of him now in her society, and under circumstances which led me to believe that he was her accepted suitor, (yet why that glance and smile of encouragement towards me from the lovely girl?) filled me with emotions of wretchedness that drove me almost to madness! I believed that he was my rival, my successful rival! else why this intimacy and this travelling in the same carriage? But if he was not her suitor, I felt that he would so paint me to her, whom I loved above all earthly objects, that I should be an object of pity if not of contempt in her eyes. Hitherto he had not poisoned her mind against me, else I should never have felt the sunshine of that parting glance thrilling through and warming my soul. He had not recognised me now. For this I was thankful, for I knew I should not be the victim of his malice while they rode.

  `Whither were they going?'

  This thought no sooner occurred to me than I hastened to inquire at the Inn, and ascertained from the host that he had heard one of the postilions say that they were proceeding to London.

  This incident gave a new turn to my thoughts. I confided the circumstance and all the facts to my friend Mr. Beufort as the only explanation I could give him of my change of manner.

  `Fear nothing,' he said encouragingly. `You will yet triumph over your enemies, and be rewarded with the hand of the maiden you so much prize!'

  May his words be prophetic!

  I was now more impatient to bring my investigations to a point. The sight of Emma Field had inspired me with new ambition to succeed, dark and cloudy as the horizon of my hopes with respect to her now seemed to me. But I find I must commence a new letter, this having already been extended to an undue length.

  Yours very truly, LITTLE MARLBORO'.

  CHAPTER IV.

  Arlborough Castle, - Aug. 2, 1844.

  For more than half an hour after leaving the Inn, where I had encountered in so remarkable a manner, Miss Field, I sat wrapped in my own thoughts, which Mr. Beufort, (divining their character) suffered me to indulge. I was inspired with new hopes, yet they were darkened even in their brightest aspects by the circumstances under which Emma had crossed my path, as the travelling companion of a man I had so little reason to love as Russell Carryl. Still I hoped, and being of too sanguine and buoyant a temperament to let obstacles stand in my way, I indulged, while I thought of Emma, the happiest visions of the future. But all, all depended on the success of my present mission! This reflection made me more earnest, more resolute in my purpose to clear up the mystery attending my birth. Should I fail after all in proving anything, I felt that the high hopes I entertained, of which Emma was the object, would be forever blasted. But I did not suffer myself to contemplate failure.

  We rode on through a eharming country, interspersed with villas, castles, and sprinkled with churches, whose spires and turrets everywhere peeping above the green oaks, gave a lively and picturesque aspect to the fair scenes which we beheld from our carriage windows. England may well be called a garden! It is every where beautiful to the eye! But I could not help reflecting as I gazed upon its pleasant vales and quiet villages, its stately country houses and palace-like mansions of her nobles, how many of her children were at that moment excluded from the enjoyment of these fair objects, shut up by thousands in her factories, or immersed by ten thousands in her cavernous mines! I felt that with all her glory, and beauty and power, and greatness, England at last was but a land of taskmasters and slaves; that every ninety nine of her inhabitants were slaves to the one hundredth! And my heart turned instinctively to American, `The land of the free, the home of the brave.'

  About three in the afternoon, as we rose a hill from which there was a prospect of great beauty
and extent, Mr. Beufort said, pointing to a noble castle situated in the midst of the valley, surrounded by a park leagues in circumference,

  `There, sir, is the seat of the Duke of Arlborough.' I turned my eyes in the direction in which he pointed, with emotions I am unable to describe. I felt my heart bound and my pulse leap. About four miles distant in the midst of a magnificent area of woodland lawn and lake with a back ground of blue moun tains, I beheld situated the place of my destination. It looked like a royal seat! like a royal domain. As I surveyed it and let my eyes rove over the towers of churches and the roofs of half concealed villages, and the far distant spires of a large town, all of which Mr. Beufort informed me appertained to this estate, my heart sank within me. I felt that I was daring and foolishly presumptuous in prosecuting the search. I experienced a feeling of self-reproof for letting my wishes to discover my parents suffer me to proceed to such lengths as I had done!—That the proprietor of that princely estate, that the proud Duke of Arlborough should in any way be any thing to me or I to him, a poor obscure American, without name or birth, seemed all at once so preposterous and absurb and altogether so unlikely, that I suddenly laid my hand on Mr. Beufort's wrist and said,

  `Sir, I feel that I am very foolish! It is impossible that I should be connected with this noble house. The circumstances that have seemed to favor the idea, are only singular coincidence without any reference to my case. My courage fails me, and I am beginning to accuse myself of presumption.'

  `Your feelings are perhaps quite natural, my young friend,' said Mr. Beufort to me, smiling kindly; `but we must not be governed in this case by feelings. The sight of the Duke's palace has no doubt presented a powerful contrast to your own condition, and you view your situation in its light. But you must take courage! The same motives and circumstances that had such strength in London are equally potent now. Take courage and we shall see that all will, somehow or other turn out as it ought to.'