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

by J. H. Ingraham

  `I then related to the Duke what I had observed,' continued Mr. Beufort, `and how he seemed to be comparing your features with that of the marble face. At this the Duke started and regarding me fixedly, oried—

  `Is it possible, Mr. Beufort that there was a resemblance?'

  `There was a very close one, your grace. I was struck with it.'

  `Then what do you think—what do you suppose this young man is in whom both you and my son have taken such an interest?'

  `I have no doubt, your Grace,' I answered, `that he is the child of Lord Ferdinand, your son!'

  `It cannot be. They had no child!'

  `They may have withheld, and doubtless did conceal from you the fact they had any offspring when we recall the condition upon which your son was to be re-instated. I have no doubt, my lord duke, that a son was born to them and that he was left in the charge of this hostess of the Silver Bottle Inn. In a word, the child whose history I have previously given you, is unquestionably their son. They left him in America probably with the intention at some early period to reclaim him; but the early death of the mother and the madness of the father prevented the fulfilment of their wishes. The child, therefore, remained and grew up to a young man, when circumstances combined to induce him to make efforts to ascertain his parentage. You have before you the Silver Bottle left with him. Here is the sketch of the coat of arms made for the carriage. On the back you see is a torn address to F. R. Mar—. All the other circumstances unite with these to prove this young man's title to your name and blood!'

  The Duke remained silent and thoughtful, and I could see that he was deeply moved. Suddenly he rose up and said impressively—

  `Mr. Beufort, if I could think this young gentleman should turn out to be my grandson, I should be perfectly happy. I would acknowledge him with joy. You say he his in the house. Let me see him. I would behold him!— Hasten and bring him hither!'

  `I then left the library,' continued Mr. Beufort. `and came hither to seek you! You must prepare yourself, my friend, for the interview. It is evident that on your resemblance to his son your acknowledgment by him will depend. He is satisfied, as far as the circumstantial evidence goes, that you may be the son of Lord Ferdmand. Come with me and take courage!'

  I took Mr. Beufort's arm, and, trembling with deep feeling, for I was greatly agitated, as upon this interview hung all my hopes, I accompanied him through a long arched gallery elegantly sculptured and adorned with paintings and statuary. At its extremity we stopped before a door at which Mr. Beufort knocked lightly.

  `Enter,' said the voice of the Duke. The sound sent the blood from my heart to my brain like lightning.

  Mr. Beufort opened the door and I entered with him into the presence of the venerable nobleman. He was standing in the middle of the room and had his eyes fixed stedfastly in the direction of the door. As I entered and he saw me clearly, he clasped his hands together and uttered an exclamation of mingled amazement aud joy.

  `It is—it is my son. It is Ferdinand. Come hither and let me see thee more fully.

  I advanced and impulsively knelt before him. He gazed upon me a few moments with deep earnestness and then bending down took my hands and bade me rise that he might embrace me. He folded me to his heart and his tears bedewed my cheeks mingling with my own.

  At length he became composed; and leading me to a seat bade me to sit down, while he took a seat close by my side and held my hand in his. In this manner he sat and studied the lineaments of my countenance. Finally, he turned to Mr. Beaufort and said—

  `I am satisfied, sir. He looks like my son at his age. One is the other's counterpart! I also see about the mouth the likeness of that injured woman, his mother! Young man,' he sald, addressing me, `I have heard all your story and am convinced that you are my own blood!'

  `And my father—my mother, sir?' I asked eagerly. `Is it true that I shall never behold them?'

  `She, alas, is no more. He is alive, but he cannot know you. He knows no one. I will be to thee in his stead, my child! But this is sad talking. Let me hear you relate your history! I would know all from your own lips.'

  As soon as I was able to compose myself, I proceeded to give him a brief account of the circumstances of my life, as they have been made known to the reader. He listened attentively for full two hours. When I had ended he knelt down and lifting his hands thanked God for vouchsafing to him in his old age so great a blessing as beholding the child of her who had died beneath his roof, that he might atone in him for the wrong of which she had been the innocent victim. He then warmly embraced me; and taking Mr. Beufort by the hand thanked him with the most grateful sincerity and fervor for the deep interest he had taken in my fortunes, and for placing in his possession one so long an exile from the house of his ancestors.

  My feelings at this happy crisis of my fortunes I will not attempt to describe. I was full of joy, gratitude, hope and love. I found it difficult to realize the truth, and had to make an effort to convince my reason that all was real and not a dream. At length the full force of my happiness rushed upon me, mingled with which were the loved features of Emma Field, and I wept for very joy. There was now no obstacle to my love. How did my heart throb with impatience to throw myself at her feet and assure her that I was no longer unworthy of her, an adventurer without name or birth!

  In the meanwhile the Duke and Mr. Beufort were talking together.

  `It is possible his father, Lord Ferdinand, may recognize him,' said Mr. Beufort.

  `The trial shall be made! You say he was comparing his features with that of the effigy upon the sarcophagus?'

  `Yes, my lord.'

  `Then an interest has been awakened. It is as you say, barely possible the son may succeed in drawing him out of himself. They must meet.'

  `It were best to let our noble young friend enter the vestibule as if by accidentt, and when he comes forth to kneel beside the sarcophagus, as he is wont to do, to let himself be seen. I have no doubt that from the intelligence and memory the sight of him before awakened in him that by judicious management he might gradually be brought out of himself and restored to his intellect. Like things have been in the history of lunacy, my lord.'

  `It is too much to hope for,' answered the Duke.

  `I will do all that my heart and filial love can dictate,' I answered earnestly.

  `If lord Ferdinand could be restored by any means, his acknowledgment of having left an infant son in America would forever put to silence every doubt. I do not question this dear young man's right to my name and lineage, Mr. Beufort. I freely and will openly acknowledge him my grandson. He bears the impress of his ancestral name upon his brow and form. He who looks upon him will bear witness he is an Arlborough. No, Mr. Beufort, I only desire, as you must, the seal of this confirmation, which none can give but my poor Ferdinand. Shall we make the trial to-day? This evening, at sundown, he will be sure to be kneeling there. Perhaps then will be the best time to make trial of the effect his son may have upon him. If the Interest he took in him at first arose from broken and confused images of memory it is probable they may a second time unite, and link, and form a continuous chain from the past to the present. It may prove the key to the restoration of his reason.'

  `God grant it may, my lord,' answered Mr. Beufort, to which I devoutly responded an audible `Amen' from my soul's depths.

  This evening, therefore, I am to make the trial to endeavor to obtain my father's recognition. I tiemble lest all should prove vain, and I shall be unknown to him for ever. Alas? for my mother, I have already wept bitter tears. To feel her maternal heart throbbing against mine would give me more joy than to have bound upon my brow the ducal coronet of my ancestors.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Arlbororough Castle, - August 4, 184—.

  I have now to record one of the most interesting events of my life, and one which has been to me the cause of infinite happiness and gratitude. In a word, I have been recognized and acknowledged by my father! His reason at my interview returned,
and — But I anticipate the narrative of the circumstances, and will at once proceed to relate them as I promised in my last letter.

  It will be remembered that the time set for me to see him was at the hour of sunset, at which season it had been long his custom to leave his private chamber adjoining the cenotaph and kneel beside it as if in worship. As the moment approached in which I was to make this trial, in its results so interesting to me, I became greatly agitated, and feared that my feelings would so far overcome me as to render it impossible to go through with the painful scene I had to enter upon. At length the shadows of the setting day began to gather upon the woodlands, and the last lingering glow of sunlight fade from the edges of the hills, and the moment of trial was at hand!

  His Grace came to me and taking me by the hand embraced me like a father, and then, attended by Mr. Beufort, we left my chamber and proceeded towards the hall of the cenotaph. At the outer door the two gentlemen remained, and opening the door I entered alone, leaving it ajar, that they might be spectators of what ensued. The saloon was unoccupied, for it wanted yet three minutes to the vesper hour. I had intentionally come in before him, that I might better compose myself for the part I had to act in this interesting affair. With feelings that I find it impossible to describe I slowly approached the cenotaph, and kneeling reverently by its side, I gazed with awe and filial tenderness upon the marble resemblance of her who I believed to be my mother. As I gazed I insensibly forgot my object in being there, and with tears in my eyes and clasped hands I let my thoughts wander to the past days of her unhappiness, and in recalling these I then ceased to regret that she had passed away to scenes of unalloyed enjoyment. In my imagination also, I began to invest the white, cold and immoveable marble with the hues and motion of life, till I seemed to be kneeling by the side of her who only slept, and whom a touch, a whisper from her child would awaken.—Impressed with this feeling, I impulsively extended my hand and laid it lightly upon her clasped fingers, and said in a voice that startled myself for its depth and intensity of mingled love and grief,

  `Mother! mother, arise! It is your son who calls you!'

  At this moment I heard a step, and looking up beheld gazing down upon me across the cenotaph, Lord Ferdinand! He stood looking calm, sorrowful, and yet fearfully stern, his tall person and dignified air giving him an appearance at once lofty and commanding. I was instantly recalled to a sense of the task before me, and my self-possession returned. I saw his eye was fixed upon me with a look of mingled wonder and anger. He surveyed me, as I kneeled, for some moments in silence! At length he addressed me in a voice that thrilled to my soul—for nature told me that it was the voice of my father:

  `Who art thou that darest to kneel by this sacred shrine? Who art thou that callest upon the dead? Speak! This spot is sacred, and he who profanes it must purify it with his blood! Say, who art thou?'

  `Father!' I answered, scarcely able to articulate the word from the strength of my emotions, which well nigh suffocated me.

  `Father!' he repeated slowly; and thrice he repeated the word, each time with increased bitterness. `Yes, I had a father! But I will not tell to strange ears the tale! No! I had a wife, too! Oh, such a wife! Angels did love her while yet she lived, and angels are her companions now!' And elevating his finger he remained a few moments silently and impressively pointing heavenward. All at once he cried in a voice of thunder,

  `But who art thou that darest to kneel here?'

  `Her child!'

  `Her child! Ha, ha, ha!' and he laughed wildly and fiercely. The expression of his features was truly terrible. `Yes, she had a child! But — but — Oh, my poor mad brain! Oh, thou Duke! Thou — but hist! he is my father! I may not speak against him. She lies here now! Oh how full of gentleness and joy was thy spirit, my beloved! How soft with love beamed thy eyes upon me, how like chords of a well-tuned harp my heart-strings sounded the touches of thy gentle words! But thou livest now only in memory!'

  `She was very lovely, my lord?' I said, seeing him pause and gaze with sorrowful tenderness upon the beauteous features of the marble face, wishing to draw him to converse with me.

  `Her countenance, fair as thou seest it there, was but a rude mirror imperfectly reflecting the divine beauty of her soul!'

  `My lord, you said but now she was a mother! What became of her child?

  `Did I say she was a mother?' he cried hoarsely. `Hush then, and do not repeat it! It must be kept a secret! The dukedom rests upon it! Aye it does hang upon it! Be silent, if thou knowest it! By and by he will be found, and then upon his noble brow I will place the coronet of his house! But hush! It must not be breathed to the winds! She who lies there, and I are sole keepers of the secret!'

  The loud, cautious, impressive voice in which he spoke this thrilled to my soul. Every word was overheard by the Duke and Mr. Beufort, for though he spoke in a whisper, it was singularly deep and distinct, reaching the remotest corner of the saloon. While he was speaking he came round the cenotaph and stood by my side. I still knelt; for in such a presence! my mad father and my mother's shade! I could only kneel in awe.

  `I will keep the secret, my lord!'

  `I know that you may be trusted. I know thee not, nor why thou art here; but there is a spirit looks out through thine eyes that I love!'

  `Where, my lord, is your child?' I asked, with as much composure and firmness as I could command.

  `Breathe it not above thy breath!' he said, seating himself upon the pedestal of the cenotaph and laying his hand impressively upon my arm, while his eyes surveyed me with a peculiar intensity mingled with kindness that seemed to me to be parental, though he himself was unconscious of the source of this regard. `I had a boy! A brave, beautiful boy! He was an infant! I saw him only as an infant, but he is gone! gone! gone too?' This was uttered with the most touching melancholy.

  `Dead?' I asked with my heart on my lips.

  `Dead! Yes, dead,' he replied, speaking to himself rather than to me. `Are not the lost dead? Yes, he is dead, for I know not where he is! My poor, cracked brain! I cannot guide its thoughts or memories! When I would think, all becomes chaos! Oh, if I could remember where! I should not be mad.'

  He rose up and walked to and fro before the shrine, his hands clasped across his forehead, and his face eloquent with the anguish of the bitterest woe. I rose, also, and gently placed my hand upon his arm: for I knew I held the key— the talisman—which if properly used would unlock the store-house of memory. I felt that if he could once be brought to a certain definite point of past time so as to recognise it, he could then be led down to the present moment, and reason would once more recover her lost path.

  `My lord,' I said, in the kindest tones I could assume, `you have been pleased to regard me with favor! Will you suffer me to hold a few words of conversation with you?'

  He looked me steadfastly in the face and then smiling with an affection in his glance that brought tears to my eyes, answered,

  `Yes, I will listen to you, for you speak to me in the tones of her I loved! Speak! but I will gaze on you, for you look upon me with the eyes of my beloved! '

  `My lord,' I said, `I will speak of your son.'

  `Softly, though,' he said, with an air of fear. `Softly; for this must be known only to us three! Did I not tell thee how the Dukedom hangs upon it! No, it must not be known! But I care not for the Dukedom! I did once, and did wickedly by deserting my poor boy! hoping to get him again; but God has punished me in taking away my memory. Dost thou know, young man, I am mad for the cause that I have forgotten where we left our boy! Sometimes I fancy 'twas at an Inn in the vallies of Switzerland; then I think 'twas in an auberge in the South of France! Then again I am persuaded he was drowned in the Atlantic.'

  He said this with a painful expression of perplexity and grief upon his haggard yet noble countenance.

  `You crossed the Atlantic then, my lord?' I asked eagerly.

  `I forget—methinks we were cast away and lost on the voyage! I remember a great storm! Yet, no!
if we had been lost I had not been here, you know, nor she there.' [It will have been observed that in alluding to his wife, that he invariably seemed to regard her as actually before him in the cenotaph] `But my poor brain wanders!' and he placed his hand to his brow.

  `My lord,' I said taking his hand and seating him upon the pedestal, `I will tell you a tale.'

  `Marry, I should be right glad to listen! I could listen and look in thine eyes forever.'

  `In America, my lord, twenty-six years ago, there drew up to a small inn not far from Boston, a carriage, containing a gentleman and his wife, both in mourning. Does my lord listen?'

  I received no reply, but with both hands he laid a firm grasp upon my wrist and rivetted his eyes earnestly upon my face.

  `The carriage was yellow and driven by a negro man! They alighted, this gentleman and lady, who seemed overcome with grief. They entered the inn and were followed to a distant chamber by the negro, who carried beneath his arm a covered basket, about the safety of which the lady seemed to be very watchful, giving the man many an anxious and careful caution. They remained an hour or two and then ordering their carriage, though it was already sun-set, they left the inn, taking the basket with them. But now comes the point of my story, my lord. An hour after their departure, the landlady hearing the cry of an infant followed the sound and entering the room they had left, found lying upon the bed—'

  `A child? An infant? a boy?—my boy! Her son!' cried out lord Ferdidinand, catching the words from my mouth and speaking in a loud and terribly excited tone, a tone in which the wildest joy was mingled with trembling hopes. I had watched the glad dawning of intelligence as I spoke, diffusing slowly yet surely, the light of intelligence over the night of reason and oblivion. I had seen with joy, the progressive unfolding of the portals of his memory, and anticipated the certain recognition which followed.

  `It was a male infant, my lord, and doubtless left by travellers. In its hands it held grasped this Silver Bottle.'