University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The scenes of our narrative now change from
the humble inn of “The Arrow,” to a noble and
ancient castle in the north of England. It is
six days after the scene in the inn, which closed
the preceding chapter.

In a sumptuous chamber in this lordly home
of one of the aristocratic families of England,
sat a lady, about thirty-eight years of age. She
was still handsome, but her fine features wore a
pensive cast. Near her, by the table, sat a tall,
soldierly-looking gentleman, whose hair was
slightly gray. He was reading the London
Times, which had that morning been brought
from the post-office.

“What news, my lord?” she asked, looking
up from a piece of embroidery which she was
engaged upon.

“Not much, Mary,” he answered, in a pleasant
voice; “not much, wife. War news, only—
which does not interest you ladies.”

“No—unless we have those we love in the
field. I trust you will not be engaged, dear
husband, in the coming struggle with France?”
questioned the countess.

“No—I am invalided. I have done with
war.”

“If our dear boy had lived, he would now
have been of an age to serve his country, like
his ancestors.”

“Yes—he would have been about nineteen.
But do not speak of the past, Mary! Your
memory is to-day as sensitive as ever it was
upon this painful subject.”

“How can I ever forget? And such a death!”

“It was the will of Heaven!”

“I have submitted! I have bowed my will to
this! I have tried to say `His will be done!”'

“It was an unfortunate day when we consented
to embark from Newcastle to Gibraltar.”

“The dread night we spent upon the few
planks upon the sea can never be obliterated!”

“We should be thankful for our own safety,
by means of the ship so providentially passing
us in the morning.”

“But if he, if our own dear Henry, had been
also saved!”

“Let us cease to speak of this dark past, my
dear Lady Mary. It only increases sorrow, and
cannot recall the lost.”

The lady's eyes sparkled with tears, and she
resumed her embroidery with a look of sadness.
The noble lord resumed his reading of the gazette,
though it was some moments before he
could fix his attention to what his eyes travelled
over. Suddenly, after eagerly reading something
for a moment to himself, he exclaimed:

“Hear this! Can it be that—”

“What is it, my lord?” she asked.

“Listen, and tell me what you think of it:”

“INFORMATION WANTED.

“If any one can give information as to the
last port out of which the ship `Exeter Castle'
sailed, some ten years ago, or more, they are requested
to send to, or call at the “Arrow Inn,”
Bell Lane, near the Strand, where any intelligence
about said ship will be handsomely paid for.

“P. S.—If the purchaser of a silver cup,
No. 249, of `Hamel,' Strand, in 1782, or thereabouts,
will call at `The Arrow,' they will learn
something greatly to their advantage.”

When the Earl of Devon—for such was the
rank of the nobleman, had finished reading,
with nervous rapidity, this two-fold advertisement,
he laid down the paper, and gazed fixedly
at his wife, whose returning gaze was one of
amazement and trepidation. She trembled—she
scarcely knew why.

“Can it be that—” she hurriedly articulated,
in her agitation.

“This is all very remarkable! The `Exeter
Castle' was not only our ship, in which we sailed
and were wrecked, but you bought a silver
cup, if I recollect aright, at—”

“Yes, and in that year, also, I believe, at
Hamel's! It was lost, with everything else, in
the wreck. It was Henry's. But what can
these advertisements mean?”

“It is very strange! Perhaps some one is
equally interested with ourselves in that ill-fated
ship.”

“But the silver cup? I certainly purchased
one at Hamel's!”

“Do you recollect the number?”

“No, I do not,” answered the lady.

“It is mentioned here as 249. There may
have been other cups bought and on board that
ship.”

“But the advertisement does not say that the
cup was found with the vessel,” said the lady,
deeply interested.

“But both are united in one advertisement;
both references are to the `Arrow Inn,”' said
the nobleman, whose interest was now wholly
awakened.

“In this ship all our dearest hopes were lost,
my lord! Whatever concerns it, that is now
revived, may concern us; especially when a silver
cup, bought at Hamel's, is connected with
it; and such a cup was in the ship, belonging to
our dear boy!”

“What would you suggest, Mary?” asked the
Earl of Devon, half anticipating her reply, if
one might judge, by the expression of her dark,
fine eyes.

“That we go up to London one week sooner
than we contemplated going.”

“What! and call at `The Arrow?”'

“Yes. I feel in my soul that this advertisement
interests us both more closely than we
imagine.”

“We will depart the day after to-morrow. I
must confess it has awakened in me a keen desire
to ascertain what the object of the advertisement
is.”

“It asks for the information, too, we have the
power to give. We know whence she sailed,
and her fate.”

“We will go to London as soon as possible,”
answered the earl, again carefully reading the
advertisement, and taking down the address of
“The Arrow.”

Two days afterwards they left their princely
seat, and took their way towards London. They
went with vague and undefined hopes. There
was a mystery connected with the advertisement
which they instinctively felt in some way concerned
themselves and their lost child! The
earl had found the day before, after long search,
the bill of plate bought at Hamel's, and the
number of the cup was two hundred and forty-nine,
the same that was advertised. This discovery
made their journey far from an unmeaning
one. Hope filled their hearts; yet neither
breathed to the other the secret thought of their
souls—“Can he yet live?”

On the morning of the second day they passed
near an ancient and warlike-looking castle.

“That is Castle Clan-William,” said the earl,
pointing it out to his wife. “It was for centuries
the abode of a race of noble earls. The fate of
the last two earls was tragical, and since then
the castle has been unoccupied, save by a seneschal.”

“Was not the old lord poisoned?”

“Yes; and by his own son, Robert. This
young nobleman was a wild liver, and was in
need; and impatient for his father's title and
wealth, and tempted by the devil, he poisoned
him. It was a dreadful crime, but known only
sometime afterwards. The parricide fled, and
having been at the same time accused of treason,
he was pursued both by the criminal and state
officers. But he escaped for a time. But vengeance
suffered him not to live; for it is said,
and believed, that he cast himself into the sea
to escape his pursuers. Crime always has a
voice to betray itself, and always seems to be
punished, even in this life.”

“Left he no heir?”

“Yes, an infant daughter—so rumor says—
whom he cruelly cast off, leaving her in the
hands of a foster-mother.”

“What became of her?”

“It is not known. Should she make her appearance,
it is not probable that she could inherit,
as the estate of the treasonous parricide
has been confiscated to the crown.”

They rode on through the green scenery of
England, and on the evening of the third day
entered London by the great northern road, just
as the lamps were being kindled in the streets.

The ensuing morning, about eleven o'clock,
the half-pay captain at the inn of “The Arrow”
was taking a luncheon of cheese and ale, and
reading over, for the hundredth time, his advertisement
in the Times; for not being much given
to literary efforts, the worthy captain looked
upon this composition with no little pride and
complacency. The widow was knitting by the
window that looked out on the lane.

“It is now two weeks nearly, and no answer
to this advertisement,” said the captain.

“It is a pity,” sighed the widow.

“I have about made up my mind to make a
journey into the north, and see this Lady Devon,
for I understand from the Peerage Book that
their seat is near the Tyne, not far from Newcastle.”

“If it is necessary to go, you shall have the
money to bear the expenses. But here is a
brave equipage—arms, and liveries, and gay
horses!” she exclaimed, looking from the window.
“It must be a lord, and not less!”

“Yes, a titled personage,” said the captain,
going to the window on hearing her exclamations.

“Bless us, they are stopping here!” she cried,
rising up in great excitement. “What can have
brought such great people to `The Arrow!'
Quick, captain! unlock the best parlor; and
please throw the shutters open. I will go and
receive them.”

“Perhaps it is somebody to answer the advertisement,”
suggested the sanguine captain, as
he obeyed his orders with much alacrity, thereby
fore-shadowing his obedience as her future husband,
should such a desirable event happen.

“This is the `Arrow Inn,' I believe?” said the
Earl of Devon, as alighting, he was received by
Dame Cresset with one of her lowest courtesies.

“Yes, my lord, at your service.”

He then handed out his countess, and both
entered the humble inn, to the great surprise
and curiosity of the over-looking neighborhood.
They were shown into the “best” parlor by the
hostess, who hastened to dust seats for them.
The captain stood, respectfully, in the door.

“There is an advertisement in the Times that
refers persons to this inn,” said the earl. “Will
you be so kind as to inform me who wrote it?”

“It was written by me, my lord; if, as I imagine,
I address a noble lord.”

“I am the Earl of Devon, and this the Countess,
sir,” said the nobleman, bowing with deference
to the captain's military air and buttons.

“Then there could not, my lord and lady,
have been more welcome visitors. I was just
making up my mind to go down into the north
to call on you.”

“In reference to the silver cup?” asked the
countess.

“Yes, my lady. I ascertained that the cup
was purchased by a Lady Devon.”

“Yes, by me!”

“We can also, sir, inform you, that the `Exeter
Castle' sailed from the Tyne, and was two
days afterwards wrecked on the coast of England,
not far from `The Wash.' We were on
board, and were saved only by the miraculous
power of God. But what of this cup you
advertise?”

“My lord, may I ask if you have a son?”

“No—he was lost—lost at the time—a child,
nearly six years old,” answered the nobleman,
sadly.

“Do you know this cup?” asked the captain,
placing it in his hand.

“I do not recognize it; but the number—”

“I know it!” exclaimed the countess, catching
it, and pressing it to her lips. I know it
well by this indentation of his three teeth. Well
do I know it, and clearly remember when it was
done by our lost boy. It is the cup he had with
him at the time of the wreck.”

“Even if the teeth-prints were not evidence,
the number is,” said the captain.

“Yes, without question, that is the cup we
purchased!”

“And the cup that was on board the `Exeter
Castle' when she was wrecked?” inquired, or
rather asserted, the captain.

“Yes—the same! But what object have you
in adv—”

“Your lordship shall hear,” said the hostess,
who took the deepest interest in what passed.
“I will tell your ladyship. About six weeks

ago, a tall, handsome youth, with black hair and
dark, fine eyes, and gentle spoken, came from
the country and lodged here. I was so taken to
him—he was so good looking and kind—that I
treated him more like my own! He told me all
about himself; how he was reared a fisherman
on the coast of Lincolnshire, but that he was not
born one, but had been taken from a wreck when
very young. He said his name was Philip, and
that it had been given to him by the fisherman
who had rescued him, and brought him up. He
told me how he had loved, humble as he was, a
little noble-born blind maiden, younger than he,
and that it was out of love for her he came up to
London, to try to find some surgeon skilled
enough to give her sight. He said he was the
occasion of her losing her sight, by means of an
arrow! Wait a moment, dear lady, I will soon
be at the end!” said Dame Cresset, seeing the
eager air and clasped hands of the countess, as
she drank in every word with a throbbing heart.
“This young man went out the next day, and
was kidnapped by a press-gang, and taken on
board a frigate, which has sailed for the seas.”

“What more? What has this story to do—”
gasped the countess, whose hopes and fears were
struggling together.

“In his knapsack I found a silver cup—”

“This?”

“The same, my lady—and a compass. These,
he said, were on the wreck with him, and he told
me that he had brought them with him to London,
hoping to learn something by them about
the ship, and those who sailed in it.”

“I have ascertained,” said the captain, “that
the compass was sold by Kerr & Kerr to the ship
`Exeter Castle,' a dozen or more years ago.”

“And that the cup, with this number on it,
was bought by Lady Devon?” asked the earl,
rapidly.

“Yes, my lord.”

There was a moment's silence; the silence of
astonishment, of hope, of emotion. The countess
first spoke in a voice trembling with joy:

“Without doubt, this is our child!”

“Let us not raise our hopes too high, dear
Mary,” said the earl, trying to conceal his own
feelings. “It is possible that this cup may have
been saved, and yet the child not be our own!”

“There was no other boy on board but him!”

“True, I recollect none! We will, at least,
hope—”

“I am sure—”

“My lady, here is a little old book, which he
said was found in his pocket by the fisherman.”

“My own prayer book!” shrieked the countess.
“It is our own child! It is Henry who
was saved! It is Henry who has been here in
this house! O, my son! my son! Has God
given thee back to me out of the jaws of death?”

“Be calm, my dear wife!” said the earl, tenderly
embracing her.

“Do not say you doubt! Confirm my joy!
See! read this part of his whole name: `Cla'
`lia,'—`For Henry Clarence William.' It is
our own writing!”

“And there are our arms!” said the earl. “I
am now convinced that our dear boy is yet
alive!”

“But where?” cried the countess, whose newborn
joy was nearly stifled by fear.

“You say, sir, that the young man—Heaven
grant that he prove to be our son, and that we
may yet behold him; you say that he was pressed
on board one of his majesty's frigates?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Proof of it, have you?”

“Yes, by a man who was pressed at the same
time and escaped, and brought a note to the
good hostess here.”

“O, let me see my child's writing!” cried the
countess.

“He writes well—even at such a time,” said
the earl, with satisfaction.

“He is well schooled, your ladyship. He uses
language like a lord, saving your presence. You
need not feel ashamed of him, if he was brought
up by a fisherman.”

“Ashamed! You are not a mother, good woman,
to think I could be ashamed to receive my
son to my arms in rags!”

In the meanwhile, the earl learned from the
happy captain, who began to imagine himself
already the husband of the landlady of “The
Arrow,” that the waterman was out making inquiries
about the frigate.

“If he can ascertain her name, all the rest is
easy,” said the earl, speaking with the confidence
of one who has influence and power at
his command.

While he was speaking, Bolton entered, and
looking not a little surprised at finding such noble
company; for in that day, noblemen were
distinguished from other men by the richness
and style of their dress.

“Here is the man, now, my lord,” said the
captain, turning to the waterman, whose appearance

a week's good fare in the inn had much
improved. “What news now? I hope more
success than the last few days.”

“Yes. The frigate was the `Bucephalus.' I
heard another name first, but after close inquiry
I made certain.”

Lord Devon took down the name upon his
tablets.

“Now, my good friends—you, excellent captain,
and you, worthy hostess—how can we reward
you for being the authors of so much happiness
to us in prospect? To you, if we indeed
receive our child, we shall owe his restoration,
through your wise steps taken in advertising the
facts. Be assured, you will neither of you lose
your reward.”

“My reward, my lady and my lord,” said
Dame Cresset, “will be to see Philip folded in
your arms as your own son!”

“And mine, my lord, will be to have you
honor my marriage with your presence here, for
I have my full reward in the hand of fair Dame
Cresset, who promised if I could get intelligence
of—”

“My lord, don't listen to him,” said the dame,
coloring, yet looking pleased; “he has done
nothing at all as he promised. The waterman,
here, brought the news of his being pressed;
and your lordship came without his knowledge!”

“But, did I not write the advertisement?
Was I not going up into Lincoln—”

“Ah, the captain is winner, fair dame! If
we find our son, our happiness will not be complete
until we see you both made happy by marriage.”

“Thanks, my lord! With such a friend as
your lordship, I shall not fail to be the happy
man you wish me.”

What pen can portray the joy and hope trembling
in the heart of the countess, as she left the
inn, though not without warmly pressing the
hands of the hostess.

“You took an interest in him! Your regard
for him has brought him to our knowledge.”

“When you hear from the frigate, please your
ladyship, let us hear,” said the hostess.

“Without fail!”

“Yes, captain,” said the earl, in conversation
with this person at the door, “it is to the Admiralty
I shall at once go. Will you take a seat
with me in my coach?”

The captain readily complied, promising to
report to the hostess all he should ascertain
about the ship-of-war.

The earl's coach drew up in due time at the
gate of the office of the Admiralty. The nobleman's
high rank obtained him admittance without
delay. Accompanied by the captain—for he
had dropped the countess at his hotel on the
way,—he entered the apartment where one of
the high dignitaries, who direct the destinies of
the British navy, was surrounded by his secretaries
and clerks.

Lord Devon was received with a hearty shake
of the hand by the Lord of the Admiralty, as if
well known to him.

“You are welcome to London, my lord!”

“I have come a little earlier than usual. But
I have reason to believe that a person, in whom
I am deeply interested, has been pressed on
board one of his majesty's ships of-war.”

“Ah! that matter can be easily fixed.”

“But I do not know what frigate it is.”

“Then it will be difficult to—”

“It was, however, a frigate—yes—I forgot—I
have her name on my tablets. It is the `Bucephalus.”'

“Captain Lord Berkeley.”

“Can you inform me where she has sailed?”

“I will ascertain for you, unless she went under
sealed orders.”

“Even in that case the seal, I trust, will be
removed for me,” said the earl.

“Your lordship appears very earnest about
the poor man.”

“It may be so; I have good reason, which I
may, by-and-by, make known.”

The Lord of Admiralty having beckoned to a
page, gave him a message, written with pencil.
He soon returned, with a secretary, from an
inner room.

“Pray, to what place is the `Bucephalus'
sent?”

“To the Mediterranean, my lord. But as she
has on board Lord Monteagle and suite, for Madrid,
she will stop at Cadiz.”

“How long since she sailed?” inquired the
earl, earnestly.

“Thirty-eight days since she left Portsmouth.”

“She must now be near Malta,” remarked the
Lord of the Admiralty to the earl.

“My lord, you will confer on me the highest
personal favor by giving me the authority to
place in the hands of Captain Manners, for the
discharge of a youth of eighteen, named Philip,
who was pressed in London the evening before
the frigate left the river.”

“It is but a slight favor to grant you, my

lord. The order shall be at once made out; and
if you wish, forwarded by our next despatch.”

“I would rather take it with me,” said the
earl.

The order was soon written, and duly signed
and sealed, and given to Lord Devon; for power
and rank command where the poor and humble
despair. It must ever be that, “to them that
have shall be given; and from them that have
not shall be taken away even that which he
hath.” The captain was amazed at the facility
with which the whole affair had been achieved,
and marvelled at the potency of a great name.

We will now leave London and its scenes, and
follow the “Bucephalus” in her track across the
waters. The ship had been at sea eleven days,
and was in a far southern latitude, towards
Spain, when, one morning, Captain Manners
sent for Philip to come into his cabin. The captive
had been too ill until then to appear on
deck; for, what with his wound and the motion
of the vessel, he could not hold up his head, and
was compelled to keep below. But he had not
been upon the deck ten minutes, when the
Countess of Monteagle's eyes accidentally fell
upon him as he was leaning over a gun, and
looking pale and sick at heart.

“My lord, do you see that face?” she said to
the earl.

“Yes; it is pale and sad! Poor youth, he
seems ill!”

“Is it unknown to you?”

“Now I recognize him! Is it the shell-gatherer,
Philip?”

“So it strikes me! It must be he!”

“How came he here? It may not be! Manners!
what youth have you there? He, who is
looking out of the port, with his eyes towards
England, and doubtless thinking of home!”

“I do not know—but I know that face! It is
the victor of the golden arrow!”

“You are right! None else can it be!” said
the countess, with animation.

“But how came he here?” asked the earl.

“I will soon ascertain,” answered the captain,
as he entered his state-cabin. The page obeyed
his command, and to his surprise and joy, Philip
found himself standing in the presence of the
earl and countess—two tried friends; and he,
also, next recognized the captain, whom he had
seen but once, on the archery ground. The kind
welcome he received from the noble pair, moved
his generous heart, and tears stood in his eyes—
tears of joy and gratitude.

“And how came you on board here?” demanded
the captain, after witnessing the interest
taken in him by his sister and the earl.

“I was pressed, sir.”

“In London or Portsmouth?”

“In London. I had only been there one day,
when I was seized and brought on board. This
wound from a cutlass has prevented me from doing
duty. I am happy to know that I am among
friends.”

“This pressing men is so cruel,” said the
countess, “it—”

“We know it, sister,” interrupted the captain,
with a smile. “But the service must have men.
As for this young man, if you desire it, he is
free.”

Two days afterwards, the frigate reached Cadiz.
Philip, at the request of the countess, was
also landed there, and thence took a Spanish
ship to return to London.