Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864 [1828], Fanshawe (Marsh & Capen, Boston) [word count] [eaf119].
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FANSHAWE. CHAPTER I.
Our court shall be a little academy.
Shakspeare.
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In an ancient, though not very populous settlement, in
a retired corner of one of the New-England States, arise
the walls of a seminary of learning, which, for the convenience
of a name, shall be entitled `Harley College,'
This institution, though the number of its years is inconsiderable,
compared with the hoar antiquity of its European
sisters, is not without some claims to reverence on
the score of age; for an almost countless multitude of
rivals, by many of which its reputation has been eclipsed,
have sprung up since its foundation. At no time, indeed,
during an existence of nearly a century, has it acquired
a very extensive fame, and circumstances, which
need not be particularized, have of late years involved it
in a deeper obscurity. There are now few candidates
for the degrees that the college is authorized to bestow.
On two of its annual `Commencement days,' there has
been a total deficiency of Baccalaureates; and the lawyers
and divines, on whom Doctorates in their respective
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professions are gratuitously inflicted, are not accustomed
to consider the distinction as an honor. Yet the sons
of this seminary have always maintained their full share
of reputation, in whatever paths of life they trod. Few
of them, perhaps, have been deep and finished scholars;
but the College has supplied—what the emergencies of
the country demanded—a set of men more useful in its
present state, and whose deficiency in theoretical knowledge
has not been found to imply a want of practical
ability.
The local situation of the College, so far secluded from
the sight and sound of the busy world, is peculiarly favorable
to the moral, if not to the literary habits of its students;
and this advantage probably caused the founders
to overlook the inconveniences that were inseparably
connected with it. The humble edifices rear themselves
almost at the farthest extremity of a narrow vale, which,
winding through a long extent of hill-country, is well nigh
as inaccessible, except at one point, as the Happy Valley
of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on becomes a
considerable river, takes its rise at a short distance above
the College, and affords, along its wood-fringed banks,
many shady retreats, where even study is pleasant, and
idleness delicious. The neighborhood of the institution
is not quite a solitude, though the few habitations scarcely
constitute a village. These consist principally of farm-houses,—
of rather an ancient date, for the settlement is
much older than the college,—and of a little inn, which,
even in that secluded spot, does not fail of a moderate
support. Other dwellings are scattered up and down the
valley; but the difficulties of the soil will long avert the
evils of a too dense population. The character of the inhabitants
does not seem—as there was perhaps room to
anticipate—to be in any degree influenced by the
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atmosphere of Harley College. They are a set of rough and
hardy yeomen, much inferior, as respects refinement, to
the corresponding classes in most other parts of our country.
This is the more remarkable, as there is scarcely a
family in the vicinity that has not provided, for at least
one of its sons, the advantages of a `liberal education.'
Having thus described the present state of Harley
College, we must proceed to speak of it as it existed
about eighty years since, when its foundation was recent
and its prospects flattering. At the head of the institution,
at this period, was a learned and orthodox Divine,
whose fame was in all the churches. He was the author
of several works which evinced much erudition and
depth of research; and the public perhaps thought the
more highly of his abilities from a singularity in the purposes
to which he applied them, that added much to the
curiosity of his labors, though little to their usefulness.
But however fanciful might be his private pursuits, Doctor
Melmoth, it was universally allowed, was diligent and
successful in the arts of instruction. The young men of
his charge prospered beneath his eye, and regarded him
with an affection, that was strengthened by the little foibles
which occasionally excited their ridicule. The president
was assisted in the discharge of his duties by two
inferior officers, chosen from the Alumni of the college,
who, while they imparted to others the knowledge they
had already imbibed, pursued the study of Divinity under
the direction of their principal. Under such auspices the
institution grew and flourished. Having at that time but
two rivals in the country (neither of them within a considerable
distance) it became the general resort of the youth
of the province in which it was situated. For several
years in succession, its students amounted to nearly fifty,
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—a number which, relatively to the circumstances of the
country, was very considerable.
From the exterior of the Collegians, an accurate observer
might pretty safely judge how long they had been
inmates of those classic walls. The brown cheeks and
the rustic dress of some would inform him that they had
but recently left the plough, to labor in a not less toilsome
field. The grave look and the intermingling of
garments of a more classic cut, would distinguish those
who had begun to acquire the polish of their new residence;—
and the air of superiority, the paler cheek, the
less robust form, the spectacles of green, and the dress
in general of threadbare black, would designate the highest
class, who were understood to have acquired nearly all
the science their Alma Mater could bestow, and to be on
the point of assuming their stations in the world. There
were, it is true, exceptions to this general description.
A few young men had found their way hither from the
distant sea-ports; and these were the models of fashion
to their rustic companions, over whom they asserted a
superiority in exterior accomplishments, which the fresh
though unpolished intellect of the sons of the forest denied
them in their literary competitions. A third class, differing
widely from both the former, consisted of a few
young descendants of the aborigines, to whom an impracticable
philanthropy was endeavoring to impart the benefits
of civilization.
If this institution did not offer all the advantages of elder
and prouder seminaries, its deficiencies were compensated
to its students by the inculcation of regular habits,
and of a deep and awful sense of religion, which seldom
deserted them in their course through life. The
mild and gentle rule of Doctor Melmoth, like that of a
father over his children, was more destructive to vice
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than a sterner sway; and though youth is never without
its follies, they have seldom been more harmless than
they were here. The students, indeed, ignorant of their
own bliss, sometimes wished to hasten the time of their
entrance on the business of life; but they found, in after
years, that many of their happiest remembrances,—many
of the scenes which they would with least reluctance live
over again,—referred to the seat of their early studies.
The exceptions to this remark were chiefly those whose
vices had drawn down, even from that paternal government,
a weighty retribution.
Doctor Melmoth, at the time when he is to be introduced
to the reader, had borne the matrimonial yoke
(and in his case it was no light burthen) nearly twenty
years. The blessing of children, however, had been denied
him,—a circumstance which he was accustomed to
consider as one of the sorest trials that chequered his
path way; for he was a man of a kind and affectionate
heart, that was continually seeking objects to rest itself
upon. He was inclined to believe, also, that a common
offspring would have exerted a meliorating influence
on the temper of Mrs. Melmoth, the character of whose
domestic government often compelled him to call to mind
such portions of the wisdom of antiquity, as relate to the
proper endurance of the shrewishness of woman. But
domestic comforts, as well as comforts of every other
kind, have their draw-backs; and so long as the balance
is on the side of happiness, a wise man will not murmur.
Such was the opinion of Doctor Melmoth; and with a little
aid from philosophy and more from religion, he journeyed
on contentedly through life. When the storm was
loud by the parlor hearth, he had always a sure and
quiet retreat in his study, and there, in his deep though
not always useful labors, he soon forgot whatever of
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disagreeable nature pertained to his situation. This small
and dark apartment was the only portion of the house, to
which, since one firmly repelled invasion, Mrs. Melmoth's
omnipotence did not extend. Here (to reverse the words
of Queen Elizabeth) there was `but one Master and no
Mistress'; and that man has little right to complain who
possesses so much as one corner in the world, where he
may be happy or miserable, as best suits him. In his
study, then, the Doctor was accustomed to spend most
of the hours that were unoccupied by the duties of his
station. The flight of time was here as swift as the wind,
and noiseless as the snow-flake; and it was a sure proof
of real happiness, that night often came upon the student,
before he knew it was mid-day.
Doctor Melmoth was wearing towards age, having lived
nearly sixty years, when he was called upon to assume
a character, to which he had as yet been a stranger.
He had possessed, in his youth, a very dear friend, with
whom his education had associated him, and who, in his
early manhood, had been his chief intimate. Circumstances,
however, had separated them for nearly thirty years,
half of which had been spent by his friend, who was engaged
in mercantile pursuits, in a foreign country. The
Doctor had nevertheless retained a warm interest in the
welfare of his old associate, though the different nature
of their thoughts and occupations had prevented them
from corresponding. After a silence of so long continuance,
therefore, he was surprised by the receipt of a letter
from his friend, containing a request of a most unexpected
nature.
Mr. Langton had married rather late in life, and his
wedded bliss had been but of short continuance. Certain
misfortunes in trade, when he was a Benedict of three
years standing, had deprived him of a large portion of
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his property, and compelled him, in order to save the remainder,
to leave his own country for what he hoped
would be but a brief residence in another. But though he
was successful in the immediate objects of his voyage, circumstances
occurred to lengthen his stay far beyond the
period which he had assigned to it. It was difficult so to
arrange his extensive concerns, that they could be safely
trusted to the management of others; and when this was
effected, there was another not less powerful obstacle to
his return. His affairs, under his own inspection, were
so prosperous, and his gains so considerable, that, in the
words of the old ballad, `He set his heart to gather
gold,' and to this absorbing passion he sacrificed his
domestic happiness. The death of his wife, about four
years after his departure, undoubtedly contributed to
give him a sort of dread of returning, which it required
a strong effort to overcome. The welfare of his only
child he knew would be little affected by this event; for
she was under the protection of his sister, of whose tenderness
he was well assured. But, after a few more
years, this sister, also, was taken away by death; and
then the father felt that duty imperatively called upon
him to return. He realized, on a sudden, how much of
life he had thrown away in the acquisition of what is only
valuable as it contributes to the happiness of life, and
how short a time was left him for life's true enjoyments.
Still, however, his mercantile habits were too deeply
seated to allow him to hazard his present prosperity by
any hasty measures; nor was Mr. Langton, though capable
of strong affections, naturally liable to manifest them
violently. It was probable, therefore, that many months
might yet elapse, before he would again tread the shores
of his native country.
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But the distant relative, in whose family, since the
death of her aunt, Ellen Langton had remained, had been
long at variance with her father, and had unwillingly assumed
the office of her protector. Mr. Langton's request,
therefore, to Doctor Melmoth, was, that his ancient
friend (one of the few friends that time had left him)
would be as a father to his daughter, till he could himself
relieve him of the charge.
The Doctor, after perusing the epistle of his friend,
lost no time in laying it before Mrs. Melmoth, though
this was, in truth, one of the very few occasions on which
he had determined that his will should be absolute law.
The lady was quick to perceive the firmness of his purpose;
and would not (even had she been particularly
averse to the proposed measure) hazard her usual authority
by a fruitless opposition. But, by long disuse, she
had lost the power of consenting graciously to any wish
of her husband's.
`I see your heart is set upon this matter,' she observed;
`and, in truth, I fear we cannot decently refuse Mr.
Langton's request. I see little good of such a friend,
Doctor, who never lets one know he is alive, till he has a
favor to ask.'
`Nay, but I have received much good at his hand,' replied
Doctor Melmoth; `and if he asked more of me, it
should be done with a willing heart. I remember in my
youth, when my worldly goods were few and ill-managed
(I was a bachelor, then, dearest Sarah, with none to look
after my household) how many times I have been beholden
to him. And see,—in his letter he speaks of presents,
of the produce of the country, which he has sent both to
you and me.'
`If the girl were country-bred,' continued the lady,
`we might give her house-room, and no harm done.
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Nay, she might even be a help to me; for Esther, our
maid-servant, leaves us at the month's end. But I warrant
she knows as little of household matters as you do
yourself, Doctor.'
`My friend's sister was well grounded in the `re familiari,”
answered her husband; `and doubtless she hath
imparted somewhat of her skill to this damsel. Besides,
the child is of tender years, and will profit much by your
instruction and mine.'
`The child is eighteen years of age, Doctor,' observed
Mrs. Melmoth, `and she has cause to be thankful that
she will have better instruction than yours.'
This was a proposition that Doctor Melmoth did not
choose to dispute; though he perhaps thought, that his
long and successful experience in the education of the
other sex might make him an able coadjutor to his wife, in
the care of Ellen Langton. He determined to journey in
person to the seaport, where his young charge resided,
leaving the concerns of Harley College to the direction
of the two tutors. Mrs. Melmoth, who indeed anticipated
with pleasure the arrival of a new subject to her authority,
threw no difficulties in the way of his intention. To
do her justice, her preparations for his journey, and the
minute instructions with which she favored him, were
such as only a woman's true affection could have suggested.
The traveller met with no incidents important to
this tale; and, after an absence of about a fortnight, he
and Ellen Langton alighted from their steeds (for on
horseback had the journey been performed) in safety at
his own door.
If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen Langton's
loveliness, it would achieve what pencil (the pencils
at least of the Colonial artists who attempted it) never
could; for though the dark eyes might be painted, the
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pure and pleasant thoughts that peeped through them
could only be seen and felt. But descriptions of beauty
are never satisfactory. It must therefore be left to the
imagination of the reader to conceive of something not
more than mortal—nor, indeed, quite the perfection of
mortality,—but charming men the more, because they
felt, that, lovely as she was, she was of like nature to
themselves.
From the time that Ellen entered Doctor Melmoth's
habitation, the sunny days seemed brighter and the cloudy
ones less gloomy, than he had ever before known them.
He naturally delighted in children; and Ellen, though
her years approached to womanhood, had yet much of
the gaiety and simple happiness, because the innocence,
of a child. She consequently became the very blessing
of his life,—the rich recreation that he promised himself
for hours of literary toil. On one occasion, indeed,
he even made her his companion in the sacred retreat of
his study, with the purpose of entering upon a course of
instruction in the learned languages. This measure,
however, he found inexpedient to repeat; for Ellen, having
discovered an old romance among his heavy folios,
contrived, by the charm of her sweet voice, to engage his
attention therein, till all more important concerns were
forgotten.
With Mrs. Melmoth, Ellen was not, of course, so great
a favorite as with her husband; for women cannot, so
readily as men, bestow upon the offspring of others those
affections that nature intended for their own; and the
Doctor's extraordinary partiality was anything rather than
a pledge of his wife's. But Ellen differed so far from
the idea she had previously formed of her, as a daughter
of one of the principal merchants, who were then, as now,
like nobles in the land, that the stock of dislike which
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Mrs. Melmoth had provided, was found to be totally inapplicable.
The young stranger strove so hard, too, (and
undoubtedly it was a pleasant labor) to win her love, that
she was successful, to a degree of which the lady herself
was not perhaps aware. It was soon seen that her education
had not been neglected in those points which Mrs.
Melmoth deemed most important. The nicer departments
of cookery, after sufficient proof of her skill, were
committed to her care; and the Doctor's table was now
covered with delicacies, simple indeed, but as tempting
on account of their intrinsic excellence as of the small
white hands that made them. By such arts as these—
which in her were no arts, but the dictates of an affectionate
disposition—by making herself useful where it
was possible, and agreeable on all occasions, Ellen gained
the love of every one within the sphere of her influence.
But the maiden's conquests were not confined to the
members of Doctor Melmoth's family. She had numerous
admirers among those, whose situation compelled
them to stand afar off and gaze upon her loveliness; as if
she were a star, whose brightness they saw, but whose
warmth they could not feel. These were the young men
of Harley College, whose chief opportunities of beholding
Ellen were upon the Sabbaths, when she worshipped
with them in the little chapel, which served the purposes
of a church to all the families of the vicinity. There
was, about this period, (and the fact was undoubtedly attributable
to Ellen's influence) a general and very evident
decline in the scholarship of the college,—especially
in regard to the severer studies. The intellectual
powers of the young men seemed to be directed chiefly
to the construction of Latin and Greek verse, many copies
of which, with a characteristic and classic gallantry,
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were strewn in the path where Ellen Langton was accustomed
to walk. They however produced no perceptible
effect; nor were the aspirations of another ambitious
youth, who celebrated her perfections in Hebrew, attended
with their merited success.
But there was one young man, to whom circumstances,
independent of his personal advantages, afforded a superior
opportunity of gaining Ellen's favor. He was nearly
related to Doctor Melmoth, on which account he received
his education at Harley College, rather than at
one of the English Universities, to the expenses of which
his fortune would have been adequate. This connexion
entitled him to a frequent and familiar access to the domestic
hearth of the dignitary,—an advantage of which,
since Ellen Langton became a member of the family, he
very constantly availed himself.
Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, in most
of the particulars of which a lady takes cognizance, to
those of his fellow students who had come under Ellen's
notice. He was tall, and the natural grace of his manners
had been improved (an advantage which few of
his associates could boast) by early intercourse with polished
society. His features, also, were handsome, and
promised to be manly and dignified, when they should
cease to be youthful. His character as a scholar was
more than respectable, though many youthful follies,
sometimes perhaps approaching near to vices, were laid
to his charge. But his occasional derelictions from discipline
were not such as to create any very serious apprehensions
respecting his future welfare; nor were they
greater than perhaps might be expected from a young
man who possessed a considerable command of money,
and who was, besides, the fine gentleman of the little
community of which he was a member,—a character,
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which generally leads its possessor into follies that he
would otherwise have avoided.
With this youth Ellen Langton became familiar, and
even intimate; for he was her only companion, of an age
suited to her own, and the difference of sex did not
occur to her as an objection. He was her constant companion,
on all necessary and allowable occasions, and
drew upon himself, in consequence, the envy of the college.
CHAPTER II.
Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain,
Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain;
As painfully to pore upon a book,
To seek the light of truth, while truth the while
Doth falsely blind the eye-sight of his look.
Shakspeare.
On one of the afternoons which afforded to the students
a relaxation from their usual labors, Ellen was attended
by her cavalier in a little excursion over the rough bridle
roads that led from her new residence. She was an
experienced equestrian,—a necessary accomplishment at
that period, when vehicles of every kind were rare. It
was now the latter end of spring; but the season had hitherto
been backward, with only a few warm and pleasant
days. The present afternoon, however, was a delicious
mingling of Spring and Summer, forming, in their union,
an atmosphere so mild and pure, that to breathe was
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almost a positive happiness. There was a little alternation
of cloud across the brow of Heaven, but only so much
as to render the sunshine more delightful.
The path of the young travellers lay sometimes among
tall and thick standing trees, and sometimes over naked
and desolate hills, whence man had taken the natural
vegetation, and then left the soil to its barrenness. Indeed,
there is little inducement to a cultivator to labor
among the huge stones, which there peep forth from the
earth, seeming to form a continued ledge for several
miles. A singular contrast to this unfavored tract of
country is seen in the narrow but luxuriant, though sometimes
swampy, strip of interval, on both sides of the
stream, that, as has been noticed, flows down the valley.
The light and buoyant spirits of Edward Walcott and Ellen
rose higher as they rode on, and their way was enlivened,
wherever its roughness did not forbid, by their
conversation and pleasant laughter. But at length Ellen
drew her bridle, as they emerged from a thick portion of
the forest, just at the foot of a steep hill.
`We must have ridden far,' she observed,—`farther
than I thought. It will be near sunset before we can
reach home.'
`There are still several hours of daylight,' replied
Edward Walcott, `and we will not turn back without ascending
this hill. The prospect from the summit is beautiful,
and will be particularly so now, in this rich sunlight.
Come Ellen,—one light touch of the whip:—your
pony is as fresh as when we started.'
On reaching the summit of the hill, and looking back
in the direction in which they had come, they could see
the little stream, peeping forth many times to the daylight,
and then shrinking back into the shade. Farther
on, it became broad and deep, though rendered
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incapable of navigation, in this part of its course, by the occasional
interruption of rapids.
`There are hidden wonders, of rock, and precipice,
and cave, in that dark forest,' said Edward, pointing to
the space between them and the river. `If it were earlier
in the day, I should love to lead you there. Shall
we try the adventure now, Ellen?'
`Oh, no!' she replied; `let us delay no longer. I fear
I must even now abide a rebuke from Mrs. Melmoth,
which I have surely deserved. But who is this, who
rides on so slowly before us?'
She pointed to a horseman, whom they had not before
observed. He was descending the hill; but, as his steed
seemed to have chosen his own pace, he made a very inconsiderable
progress.
`Oh! do you not know him?—But it is scarcely possible
you should,' exclaimed her companion. `We must
do him the good office, Ellen, of stopping his progress,
or he will find himself at the village, a dozen miles farther
on, before he resumes his consciousness.'
`Has he then lost his senses?' inquired Miss Langton.
`Not so, Ellen,—if much learning has not made him
mad,' replied Edward Walcott. `He is a deep scholar
and a noble fellow, but I fear we shall follow him to his
grave, ere long. Doctor Melmoth has sent him to ride
in pursuit of his health. He will never overtake it, however,
at this pace.'
As he spoke, they had approached close to the subject
of their conversation, and Ellen had a moment's space for
observation, before he started from the abstraction, in
which he was plunged. The result of her scrutiny was
favorable, yet very painful.
The stranger could scarcely have attained his twentieth
year, and was possessed of a face and form, such as
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Nature bestows on none but her favorites. There was a
nobleness on his high forehead, which time would have
deepened into majesty; and all his features were formed
with a strength and boldness, of which the paleness, produced
by study and confinement, could not deprive them.
The expression of his countenance was not a melancholy
one;—on the contrary, it was proud and high—perhaps
triumphant—like one who was a ruler in a world of his
own, and independent of the beings that surrounded him.
But a blight, of which his thin, pale cheek and the brightness
of his eye were alike proofs, seemed to have come
over him ere his maturity.
The scholar's attention was now aroused by the hoof-tramps
at his side, and starting, he fixed his eyes on Ellen,
whose young and lovely countenance was full of the
interest he had excited. A deep blush immediately suffused
his cheek, proving how well the glow of health
would have become it. There was nothing awkward,
however, in his manner; and soon recovering his self-possession,
he bowed to her and would have rode on.
`Your ride is unusually long, to-day, Fanshawe,' observed
Edward Walcott. `When may we look for your
return?'
The young man again blushed, but answered, with a
smile that had a beautiful effect upon his countenance,
`I was not, at the moment, aware in which direction my
horse's head was turned. I have to thank you for arresting
me in a journey, which was likely to prove much
longer than I intended.'
The party had now turned their horses, and were about
to resume their ride, in a homeward direction; but Edward
perceived that Fanshawe, having lost the excitement
of intense thought, now looked weary and dispirited.
`Here is a cottage close at hand,' he observed. `We
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have ridden far, and stand in need of refreshment. Ellen,
shall we alight?'
She saw the benevolent motive of his proposal, and did
not hesitate to comply with it. But as they paused at the
cottage door, she could not but observe, that its exterior
promised few of the comforts which they required. Time
and neglect seemed to have conspired its ruin, and but
for a thin curl of smoke from its clay chimney, they could
not have believed it to be inhabited. A considerable
tract of land, in the vicinity of the cottage, had evidently
been, at some former period, under cultivation, but was
now overrun by bushes and dwarf pines, among which
many huge gray rocks, ineradicable by human art, endeavored
to conceal themselves. About half an acre of
ground was occupied by the young blades of Indian corn,
at which a half-starved cow gazed wistfully, over the
mouldering log fence. These were the only agricultural
tokens. Edward Walcott nevertheless drew the latch of
the cottage door, after knocking loudly, but in vain.
The apartment, which was thus opened to their view,
was quite as wretched, as its exterior had given them reason
to anticipate. Poverty was there, with all its necessary,
and unnecessary concomitants. The intruders
would have retired, had not the hope of affording relief
detained them.
The occupants of the small and squallid apartment
were two women, both of them elderly, and, from the resemblance
of their features, appearing to be sisters. The
expression of their countenances, however, was very different.
One, evidently the younger, was seated on the
farther side of the large hearth, opposite to the door, at
which the party stood. She had the sallow look of long
and wasting illness, and there was an unsteadiness of expression
about her eyes, that immediately struck the
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observer. Yet her face was mild and gentle, therein contrasting
widely with that of her companion.
The other woman was bending over a small fire of
decayed branches, the flame of which was very disproportionate
to the smoke, scarcely producing heat sufficient
for the preparation of a scanty portion of food.
Her profile, only, was visible to the strangers, though,
from a slight motion of her eye, they perceived that she
was aware of their presence. Her features were pinched
and spare, and wore a look of sullen discontent, for
which the evident wretchedness of her situation afforded
a sufficient reason. This female, notwithstanding her
years and the habitual fretfulness, that is more wearing
than time, was apparently healthy and robust, with a dry,
leathery complexion. A short space elapsed before she
thought proper to turn her face towards her visiters, and
she then regarded them with a lowering eye, without
speaking or rising from her chair.
`We entered,' Edward Walcott began to say, `in the
hope;'—but he paused, on perceiving that the sick woman
had risen from her seat, and with slow and tottering foot-steps
was drawing near to him. She took his hand in
both her own, and, though he shuddered at the touch of
age and disease, he did not attempt to withdraw it. She
then perused all his features, with an expression at first
of eager and hopeful anxiety, which faded by degrees into
disappointment. Then, turning from him, she gazed into
Fanshawe's countenance with the like eagerness, but with
the same result. Lastly, tottering back to her chair, she
hid her face, and wept bitterly. The strangers, though
they knew not the cause of her grief, were deeply affected;
and Ellen approached the mourner with words of
comfort, which, more from their tone than their meaning,
produced a transient effect.
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[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
`Do you bring news of him?' she inquired, raising her
head. `Will he return to me? Shall I see him before I
die?' Ellen knew not what to answer, and ere she could
attempt it, the other female prevented her.
`Sister Butler is wandering in her mind,' she said,
`and speaks of one she will never behold again. The
sight of strangers disturbs her, and you see we have nothing
here to offer you.'
The manner of the woman was ungracious, but her
words were true. They saw that their presence could do
nothing towards the alleviation of the misery they witnessed,
and they felt that mere curiosity would not authorize
a longer intrusion. So soon, therefore, as they had relieved,
according to their power, the poverty that seemed
to be the least evil of this cottage, they emerged into the
open air.
The breath of Heaven felt sweet to them, and removed
a part of the weight from their young hearts, which were
saddened by the sight of so much wretchedness. Perceiving
a pure and bright little fountain, at a short distance
from the cottage, they approached it, and using the
bark of a birch tree as a cup, partook of its cool waters.
They then pursued their homeward ride with such diligence,
that, just as the sun was setting, they came in
sight of the humble wooden edifice, which was dignified
with the name of Harley College. A golden ray rested
upon the spire of the little chapel, the bell of which sent
its tinkling murmur down the valley, to summon the wanderers
to evening prayers.
Fanshawe returned to his chamber, that night, and lit
his lamp as he had been wont to do. The books were
around him, which had hitherto been to him like those
fabled volumes of Magic, from which the reader could
not turn away his eye, till death were the consequence
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
of his studies. But there were unaccustomed thoughts
in his bosom, now; and to these, leaning his head on one
of the unopened volumes, he resigned himself.
He called up in review the years, that, even at his
early age, he had spent in solitary study,—in conversation
with the dead,—while he had scorned to mingle with
the living world, or to be actuated by any of its motives.
He asked himself, to what purpose was all this destructive
labor, and where was the happiness of superior
knowledge? He had climbed but a few steps of a ladder
that reached to infinity,—he had thrown away his life in
discovering, that, after a thousand such lives, he should
still know comparatively nothing. He even looked forward
with dread—though once the thought had been dear
to him—to the eternity of improvement that lay before
him. It seemed now a weary way, without a resting
place, and without a termination; and, at that moment,
he would have preferred the dreamless sleep of the brutes
that perish, to man's proudest attribute, of immortality.
Fanshawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected
with the world, unconcerned in its feelings, and uninfluenced
by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect he
probably deceived himself. If his inmost heart could have
been laid open, there would have been discovered that
dream of undying fame, which, dream as it is, is more
powerful than a thousand realities. But at any rate, he
had seemed, to others and to himself, a solitary being,
upon whom the hopes and fears of ordinary men were ineffectual.
But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the many
ties, that, so long as we breathe the common air (and
who shall say how much longer?) unite us to our kind.
The sound of a soft, sweet voice,—the glance of a gentle
eye,—had wrought a change upon him, and, in his
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
ardent mind, a few hours had done the work of many. Almost
in spite of himself, the new sensation was inexpressibly
delightful. The recollection of his ruined health,—
of his habits, so much at variance with those of the
world,—all the difficulties that reason suggested,—were
inadequate to check the exulting tide of hope and joy.
CHAPTER III.
And let the aspiring youth beware of love,—
Of the smooth glance, beware; for 'tis too late,
When on his heart the torrent softness pours.
Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame
Dissolves in air away.
Thomson.
A few months passed over the heads of Ellen Langton
and her admirers, unproductive of events, that, separately,
were of sufficient importance to be related. The
summer was now drawing to a close, and Doctor Melmoth
had received information that his friend's arrangements
were nearly completed, and that, by the next home-bound
ship, he hoped to return to his native country.
The arrival of that ship was daily expected.
During the time that had elapsed since his first meeting
with Ellen, there had been a change, yet not a very
remarkable one, in Fanshawe's habits. He was still the
same solitary being, so far as regarded his own sex, and
he still confined himself as sedulously to his chamber, except
for one hour—the sunset hour—of every day. At
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
that period, unless prevented by the inclemency of the
weather, he was accustomed to tread a path that wound
along the banks of the stream. He had discovered that
this was the most frequent scene of Ellen's walks, and
this it was that drew him thither.
Their intercourse was at first extremely slight. A bow
on the one side, a smile on the other, and a passing word
from both,—and then the student hurried back to his solitude.
But, in course of time, opportunities occurred for
more extended conversation; so that, at the period with
which this chapter is concerned, Fanshawe was, almost
as constantly as Edward Walcott himself, the companion
of Ellen's walks.
His passion had strengthened, more than proportionably
to the time that had elapsed since it was conceived;
but the first glow and excitement which attended it, had
now vanished. He had reasoned calmly with himself and
rendered evident to his own mind the almost utter hopelessness
of success. He had also made his resolution
strong, that he would not even endeavor to win Ellen's
love, the result of which, for a thousand reasons, could
not be happiness. Firm in this determination, and confident
of his power to adhere to it,—feeling, also, that time
and absence could not cure his own passion, and having
no desire for such a cure,—he saw no reason for breaking
off the intercourse that was established between Ellen
and himself. It was remarkable, that, notwithstanding
the desperate nature of his love, that, or something
connected with it, seemed to have a beneficial effect upon
his health. There was now a slight tinge of color in his
cheek, and a less consuming brightness in his eye. Could
it be that hope, unknown to himself, was yet alive in his
breast?—that a sense of the possibility of earthly happiness
was redeeming him from the grave?
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
Had the character of Ellen Langton's mind been different,
there might perhaps have been danger to her from
an intercourse of this nature, with such a being as Fanshawe;
for he was distinguished by many of those asperities
around which a woman's affection will often cling.
But she was formed to walk in the calm and quiet paths
of life, and to pluck the flowers of happiness from the
way-side, where they grow. Singularity of character,
therefore, was not calculated to win her love. She undoubtedly
felt an interest in the solitary student, and perceiving,
with no great exercise of vanity, that her society
drew him from the destructive intensity of his studies,
she perhaps felt it a duty to exert her influence. But it
did not occur to her, that her influence had been sufficiently
strong to change the whole current of his thoughts
and feelings.
Ellen and her two lovers (for both, though perhaps, not
equally deserved that epithet) had met, as usual, at the
close of a sweet summer day, and were standing by the
side of the stream, just where it swept into a deep pool.
The current, undermining the bank, had formed a recess
which, according to Edward Walcott, afforded at that
moment a hiding place to a trout of noble size.
`Now would I give the world,' he exclaimed, with great
interest, `for a hook and line,—a fish spear, or any piscatorial
instrument of death! Look, Ellen, you can see the
waving of his tail from beneath the bank.'
`If you had the means of talking him, I should save
him from your cruelty, thus,' said Ellen, dropping a pebble
into the water, just over the fish. `There! he has
darted down the stream. How many pleasant caves and
recesses there must be, under these banks, where he
may be happy! May there not be happiness in the life
of a fish?' she added, turning with a smile to Fanshawe.
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
`There may,' he replied, `so long as he lives quietly
in the caves and recesses of which you speak. Yes,
there may be happiness, though such as few would envy;—
but then the hook and line'—
`Which, there is reason to apprehend, will shortly destroy
the happiness of our friend the trout,' interrupted
Edward, pointing down the stream. `There is an angler
on his way towards us, who will intercept him.'
`He seems to care little for the sport, to judge by the
pace at which he walks,' said Ellen.
`But he sees, now, that we are observing him, and is
willing to prove that he knows something of the art,' replied
Edward Walcott. `I should think him well acquainted
with the stream; for, hastily as he walks, he
has tried every pool and ripple, where a fish usually hides.
But that point will be decided when he reaches yonder
old bare oak tree.'
`And how is the old tree to decide the question?' inquired
Fanshawe. `It is a species of evidence of which
I have never before heard.'
`The stream has worn a hollow under its roots,' answered
Edward,—`a most delicate retreat for a trout.
Now, a stranger would not discover the spot; or, if he
did, the probable result of a cast would be the loss of hook
and line,—an accident that has occurred to me more than
once. If, therefore, this angler takes a fish from thence,
it follows that he knows the stream.'
They observed the fisher, accordingly, as he kept his
way up the bank. He did not pause when he reached
the old leafless oak, that formed with its roots an obstruction
very common in American streams; but throwing
his line with involuntary skill, as he passed, he not only
escaped the various entanglements, but drew forth a fine
large fish.
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
`There, Ellen, he has captivated your protegee, the
trout,—or at least one very like him in size,' observed
Edward. `It is singular,' he added, gazing earnestly at
the man.
`Why is it singular?' inquired Ellen Langton. `This
person perhaps resides in the neighborhood, and may
have fished often in the stream.'
`Do but look at him, Ellen, and judge whether his life
can have been spent in this lonely valley,' he replied.
`The glow of many a hotter sun than ours has darkened
his brow; and his step and air have something foreign in
them, like what we see in sailors, who have lived more in
other countries than in their own. Is it not so, Ellen?—
for your education in a sea port must have given you
skill in these matters. But, come,—let us approach nearer.
'
They walked towards the angler, accordingly, who still
remained under the oak, apparently engaged in arranging
his fishing tackle. As the party drew nigh, he raised
his head and threw one quick, scrutinizing glance towards
them, disclosing, on his part, a set of bold and rather
coarse features, weather beaten, but indicating the age of
the owner to be not above thirty. In person he surpassed
the middle size, was well set, and evidently strong and
active.
`Do you meet with much success, Sir?' inquired Edward
Walcott, when within a convenient distance for conversation.
`I have taken but one fish,' replied the angler, in an
accent which his hearers could scarcely determine to be
foreign, or the contrary. `I am a stranger to the stream,
and have doubtless passed over many a likely place for
sport.'
`You have an angler's eye, Sir,' rejoined Edward. `I
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
observed that you made your casts as if you had often
trod these banks, and I could scarcely have guided you
better myself.'
`Yes, I have learnt the art, and I love to practise it,' replied
the man. `But will not the young lady try her skill?'
he continued, casting a bold eye on Ellen. `The fish
will love to be drawn out by such white hands as those.'
Ellen shrank back, though almost imperceptibly, from
the free bearing of the man. It seemed meant for courtesy,
but its effect was excessively disagreeable. Edward
Walcott, who perceived and coincided in Ellen's feelings,
replied to the stranger's proposal.
`The young lady will not put the gallantry of the fish
to the proof, Sir,' he said, `and she will therefore have
no occasion for your own.'
`I shall take heave to hear my answer from the young
lady's own mouth,' answered the stranger, haughtily.
`If you will step this way, Miss Langton'—here he interrupted
himself,—`if you will cast the line by yonder sunken
log, I think you will meet with success.'
Thus saying, the angler offered his rod and line to Ellen.
She at first drew back,—then hesitated,—but finally
held out her hand to receive them. In thus complying
with the stranger's request, she was actuated by a
desire to keep the peace, which, as her notice of Edward
Walcott's crimsoned cheek and flashing eye assured her,
was considerably endangered. The angler led the way
to the spot which he had pointed out, which, though not
at such a distance from Ellen's companions but that words
in a common tone could be distinguished, was out of the
range of a lowered voice.
Edward Walcott and the student remained by the oak,
the former biting his lip with vexation; the latter, whose
abstraction always vanished where Ellen was concerned,
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
regarding her and the stranger with fixed and silent attention.
The young men could at first hear the words
that the angler addressed to Ellen. They related to the
mode of managing the rod; and she made one or two casts
under his direction. At length, however, as if to offer
his assistance, the man advanced close to her side, and
seemed to speak; but in so low a tone, that the sense of
what he uttered was lost, before it reached the oak. But
its effect upon Ellen was immediate, and very obvious.
Her eye flashed, and an indignant blush rose high on her
cheek, giving to her beauty a haughty brightness, of
which the gentleness of her disposition in general deprived
it. The next moment, however, she seemed to recollect
herself, and restoring the angling rod to its owner,
she turned away, calmly, and approached her companions.
`The evening breeze grows chill, and mine is a dress
for a summer day,' she observed. `Let us walk homeward.
'
`Miss Langton, is it the evening breeze, alone, that
sends you homeward?' inquired Edward.
At this moment, the angler, who had resumed and
seemed to be intent upon his occupation, drew a fish from
the pool which he had pointed out to Ellen.
`I told the young lady,' he exclaimed, `that if she
would listen to me a moment longer, she would be repaid
for her trouble;—and here is the proof of my words.'
`Come, let us hasten towards home,' cried Ellen, eagerly;
and she took Edward Walcott's arm, with a freedom
that, at another time, would have enchanted him.
He at first seemed inclined to resist her wishes; but complied,
after exchanging, unperceived by Ellen, a glance
with the stranger, the meaning of which the latter appeared
perfectly to understand. Fanshawe also attended her.
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
Their walk towards Doctor Melmoth's dwelling was almost
a silent one, and the few words that passed between
them, did not relate to the adventure which occupied the
thoughts of each. On arriving at the house, Ellen's attendants
took leave of her, and retired.
Edward Walcott, eluding Fanshawe's observation with
little difficulty, hastened back to the old oak tree. From
the intelligence with which the stranger had received his
meaning glance, the young man had supposed that he
would here await his return. But the banks of the stream,
upward and downward, so far as his eye could reach, were
solitary. He could see only his own image in the water,
where it swept into a silent depth; and could hear only
its ripple, where stones and sunken trees impeded its
course. The object of his search might indeed have
found concealment among the tufts of alders, or in the
forest that was near at hand; but thither it was in vain to
pursue him. The angler had apparently set little store
by the fruits of his assumed occupation; for the last fish
that he had taken lay yet alive on the bank, gasping for
the element to which Edward was sufficiently compassionate
to restore him. After watching him as he glided
down the stream, making feeble efforts to resist its current,
the youth turned away, and sauntered slowly towards
the College.
Ellen Langton, on her return from her walk, found
Doctor Melmoth's little parlor unoccupied, that gentleman
being deeply engaged in his study, and his lady
busied in her domestic affairs. The evening, notwithstanding
Ellen's remark concerning the chillness of the
breeze, was almost sultry, and the windows of the apartment
were thrown open. At one of these, which looked
into the garden, she seated herself, listening almost unconsciously
to the monotonous music of a thousand insects,
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
varied, occasionally, by the voice of a whippoorwill, who,
as the day departed, was just commencing his song. A
dusky tint, as yet almost imperceptible, was beginning to
settle on the surrounding objects, except where they were
opposed to the purple and golden clouds, which the vanished
sun had made the brief inheritors of a portion of his
brightness. In these gorgeous vapors, Ellen's fancy, in
the interval of other thoughts, pictured a fairy land, and
longed for wings to visit it.
But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and assumed
first a dull purple, and then a sullen grey tint, Ellen's
thoughts recurred to the adventure of the angler, which
her imagination was inclined to invest with an undue singularity.
It was, however, sufficiently unaccountable,
that an entire stranger should venture to demand of her
a private audience; and she assigned, in turn, a thousand
motives for such a request, none of which were in any
degree satisfactory. Her most prevailing thought, though
she could not justify it to her reason, inclined her to believe
that the angler was a messenger from her father.
But wherefore he should deem it necessary to communicate
any intelligence, that he might possess, only by
means of a private interview, and without the knowledge
of her friends, was a mystery she could not solve. In
this view of the matter, however, she half regretted that
her instinctive delicacy had impelled her so suddenly to
break off their conference, admitting, in the secrecy of
her own mind, that, if an opportunity were again to occur,
it might not again be shunned. As if that unuttered
thought had power to conjure up its object, she now became
aware of a form, standing in the garden, at a short
distance from the window, where she sat. The dusk had
deepened, during Ellen's abstraction, to such a degree,
that the man's features were not perfectly
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
distinguishable; but the maiden was not long in doubt of his identity,
for he approached, and spoke in the same low tone in
which he had addressed her, when they stood by the
stream.
`Do you still refuse my request, when its object is but
your own good, and that of one who should be most dear
to you?' he asked.
Ellen's first impulse had been, to cry out for assistance—
her second was, to fly;—but rejecting both these measures,
she determined to remain, endeavoring to persuade
herself that she was safe. The quivering of her voice,
however, when she attempted to reply, betrayed her apprehensions.
`I cannot listen to such a request from a stranger,' she
said. `If you bring news from—from my father, why is
it not told to Doctor Melmoth?'
`Because what I have to say is for your ear alone,'
was the reply; `and if you would avoid misfortune now,
and sorrow hereafter, you will not refuse to hear me.'
`And does it concern my father?' asked Ellen, eagerly.
`It does—most deeply,' answered the stranger.
She meditated a moment, and then replied, `I will not
refuse,—I will hear—but speak quickly.'
`We are in danger of interruption in this place,—and
that would be fatal to my errand,' said the stranger. `I
will await you in the garden.'
With these words, and giving her no opportunity for
reply, he drew back, and his form faded from her eyes.
This precipitate retreat from argument was the most probable
method, that he could have adopted, of gaining his
end. He had awakened the strongest interest in Ellen's
mind, and he calculated justly, in supposing that she
would consent to an interview upon his own terms.
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
Doctor Melmoth had followed his own fancies in the
mode of laying out his garden; and, in consequence, the
plan that had undoubtedly existed in his mind, was utterly
incomprehensible to every one but himself. It was an
intermixture of kitchen and flower garden,—a labyrinth of
winding paths, bordered by hedges and impeded by shrubbery.
Many of the original trees of the forest were still
flourishing among the exotics, which the Doctor had transplanted
thither. It was not without a sensation of fear,
stronger than she had ever before experienced, that Ellen
Langton found herself in this artificial wilderness, and in
the presence of the mysterious stranger. The dusky
light deepened the lines of his dark, strong features, and
Ellen fancied that his countenance wore a wilder and a
fiercer look, than when she had met him by the stream.
He perceived her agitation, and addressed her in the
softest tones of which his voice was capable.
`Compose yourself,' he said, `you have nothing to fear
from me. But we are in open view from the house,
where we now stand; and discovery would not be without
danger, to both of us.'
`No eye can see us here,' said Ellen, trembling at the
truth of her own observation, when they stood beneath a
gnarled, low-branched pine, which Doctor Melmoth's
ideas of beauty had caused him to retain in his garden.
`Speak quickly; for I dare follow you no farther.'
The spot was indeed sufficiently solitary, and the stranger
delayed no longer to explain his errand.
`Your father,' he began,—`Do you not love him?
Would you do aught for his welfare?'
`Every thing that a father could ask, I would do,' exclaimed
Ellen, eagerly. `Where is my father; and when
shall I meet him?'
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
`It must depend upon yourself, whether you shall meet
him in a few days or never.'
`Never!' repeated Ellen. `Is he ill?—Is he in danger?
'
`He is in danger,' replied the man; `but not from illness.
Your father is a ruined man. Of all his friends,
but one remains to him. That friend has travelled far,
to prove if his daughter has a daughter's affection.'
`And what is to be the proof?' asked Ellen, with more
calmness than the stranger had anticipated; for she possessed
a large fund of plain sense, which revolted against
the mystery of these proceedings. Such a course, too,
seemed discordant with her father's character, whose
strong mind and almost cold heart were little likely to
demand, or even to pardon, the romance of affection.
`This letter will explain,' was the reply to Ellen's
question. `You will see that it is in your father's hand;
and that may gain your confidence, though I am doubted.'
She received the letter, and many of her suspicions of
the stranger's truth were vanquished by the apparent openness
of his manner. He was preparing to speak further,
but paused,—for a footstep was now heard, approaching
from the lower part of the garden. From their situation,
at some distance from the path, and in the shade of the
tree, they had a fair chance of eluding discovery from
any unsuspecting passenger; and when Ellen saw that
the intruder was Fanshawe, she hoped that his usual abstraction
would assist their concealment.
But, as the student advanced along the path, his air
was not that of one, whose deep, inward thoughts withdrew
his attention from all outward objects. He rather
resembled the hunter, on the watch for his game; and
while he was yet at a distance from Ellen, a wandering
gust of wind waved her white garment and betrayed her.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
`It is as I feared,' said Fanshawe to himself. He then
drew nigh, and addressed Ellen with a calm authority
that became him well, notwithstanding that his years
scarcely exceeded her own. `Miss Langton,' he inquired,
`what do you here, at such an hour, and with such a
companion?'
Ellen was sufficiently displeased at what she deemed
the unauthorized intrusion of Fanshawe in her affairs;
but his imposing manner and her own confusion prevented
her from replying.
`Permit me to lead you to the house,' he continued, in
the words of a request, but in the tone of a command.
`The dew hangs dank and heavy on these branches, and
a longer stay would be more dangerous than you are
aware.'
Ellen would fain have resisted; but, though the tears
hung as heavy on her eye lashes, between shame and anger,
as the dew upon the leaves, she felt compelled to accept
the arm that he offered her. But the stranger, who,
since Fanshawe's approach, had remained a little apart,
now advanced.
`You speak as one in authority, young man,' he said.
`Have you the means of compelling obedience? Does
your power extend to men?—Or do you rule only over
simple girls? Miss Langton is under my protection, and,
till you can bend me to your will, she shall remain so.'
Fanshawe turned, calmly, and fixed his eye on the
stranger. `Retire, Sir,' was all he said.
Ellen almost shuddered, as if there were a mysterious
and unearthly power in Fanshawe's voice; for she saw
that the stranger endeavored in vain, borne down by the
influence of a superior mind, to maintain the boldness of
look and bearing, that seemed natural to him. He at
first made a step forward,—then muttered a few half
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
audible words;—but, quailing at length beneath the young
man's bright and steady eye, he turned and slowly withdrew.
Fanshawe remained silent, a moment, after his opponent
had departed; and when he next spoke, it was in a
tone of depression. Ellen observed, also, that his countenance
had lost its look of pride and authority; and he
seemed faint and exhausted. The occasion that called
forth his energies had passed; and they had left him.
`Forgive me, Miss Langton,' he said, almost humbly,
if my eagerness to serve you has led me too far. There
is evil in this stranger, more than your pure mind can
conceive. I know not what has been his errand; but let
me entreat you to put confidence in those to whose care
your father has entrusted you. Or if I,—or—or Edward
Walcott;—but I have no right to advise you; and your
own calm thoughts will guide you best.'
He said no more; and, as Ellen did not reply, they
reached the house, and parted in silence.
-- 037 --
CHAPTER IV.
The seeds by nature planted
Take a deep root i'th soil, and though for a time
The trenchant share and tearing harrow may
Sweep all appearance of them from the surface,
Yet, with the first warm rains of Spring, they'll shoot,
And with their rankness smother the good grain.
Heaven grant, it mayn't be so with him.
Riches.
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
The scene of this tale must now be changed to the little
Inn, which at that period, as at the present, was situated
in the vicinity of Harley College. The site of the
modern establishment is the same with that of the ancient,
but every thing of the latter, that had been built by hands,
has gone to decay and been removed, and only the earth,
beneath and around it, remains the same. The modern
building, a house of two stories, after a lapse of twenty
years, is yet unfinished. On this account, it has retained
the appellation of the `new Inn,' though, like many who
have frequented it, it has grown old ere its maturity. Its
dingy whiteness and its apparent superfluity of windows
(many of them being closed with rough boards) give it
somewhat of a dreary look, especially in a wet day.
The ancient Inn was a house, of which the eaves approached
within about seven feet of the ground, while the
roof, sloping gradually upward, formed an angle at several
times that height. It was a comfortable and pleasant
abode to the weary traveller, both in summer and
winter; for the frost never ventured within the sphere
of its huge hearths; and it was protected from the heat
of the sultry season by three large elms that swept the
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
roof with their long branches and seemed to create a
breeze where there was not one. The device upon the
sign, suspended from one of these trees, was a Hand,
holding a long necked Bottle, and was much more appropriate
than the present unmeaning representation, of a
Black Eagle. But it is necessary to speak rather more
at length of the Landlord, than of the house over which
he presided.
Hugh Crombie was one, for whom most of the wise
men, who considered the course of his early years, had
predicted the gallows as an end, before he should arrive
at middle age. That these prophets of ill had been deceived
was evident from the fact, that the doomed man
had now past the fortieth year, and was in more prosperous
circumstances than most of those who had wagged
their tongues against him. Yet the failure of their forebodings
was more remarkable than their fulfilment would
have been.
He had been distinguished almost from his earliest infancy
by those precocious accomplishments, which, because
they consist in an imitation of the vices and follies
of maturity, render a boy the favorite plaything of men.
He seemed to have received from nature the convivial
talents, which, whether natural or acquired, are a most
dangerous possession; and before his twelfth year he was
the welcome associate of all the idle and dissipated of his
neighborhood, and especially of those who haunted the
tavern of which he had now become the landlord. Under
this course of education Hugh Crombie grew to youth
and manhood; and the lovers of good words could only
say in his favor, that he was a greater enemy to himself
than to any one else, and that, if he should reform, few
would have a better chance of prosperity than he.
The former clause of this modicum of praise (if praise
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it may be termed) was indisputable; but it may be doubted,
whether, under any circumstances where his success
depended on his own exertions, Hugh would have made his
way well through the world. He was one of those unfortunate
persons, who, instead of being perfect in any single
art or occupation, are superficial in many, and who
are supposed to possess a larger share of talent than other
men, because it consists of numerous scraps instead of
a single mass. He was partially acquainted with most of
the manual arts that gave bread to others; but not one of
them, nor all of them, would give bread to him. By
some fatality, the only two of his multifarious accomplishments,
in which his excellence was generally conceded,
were both calculated to keep him poor rather than to
make him rich. He was a musician and a poet.
There are yet remaining, in that portion of the country,
many ballads and songs—set to their own peculiar tunes—
the authorship of which is attributed to him. In general,
his productions were upon subjects of local and temporary
interest, and would consequently require a bulk
of explanatory notes, to render them interesting or intelligible
to the world at large. A considerable proportion
of the remainder are Anacreontics,—though, in their construction,
Hugh Crombie imitated neither the Teian nor
any other bard. These latter have generally a coarseness
and sensuality, intolerable to minds even of no very
fastidious delicacy. But there are two or three simple
little songs, into which a feeling and a natural pathos
have found their way, that still retain their influence over
the heart. These, after two or three centuries, may perhaps
be precious to the collectors of our early poetry.
At any rate, Hugh Crombie's effusions, tavern haunter
and vagrant though he was, have gained a continuance
of fame (confined, indeed, to a narrow section of the
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country) which many, who called themselves poets then,
and would have scorned such a brother, have failed to
equal.
During the long winter evenings, when the farmers
were idle round their hearths, Hugh was a courted guest;
for none could while away the hours more skilfully than he.
The winter therefore was his season of prosperity; in
which respect he differed from the butterflies and useless
insects, to which he otherwise bore a resemblance. During
the cold months, a very desirable alteration for the better,
appeared in his outward man. His cheeks were plump
and sanguine, his eyes bright and cheerful, and the tip of
his nose glowed with a Bardolphian fire,—a flame, indeed,
which Hugh was so far a vestal as to supply with its necessary
fuel, at all seasons of the year. But as the Spring
advanced, he assumed a lean and sallow look, wilting and
fading in the sunshine, that brought life and joy to every
animal and vegetable except himself. His winter patrons
eyed him with an austere regard, and some even practised
upon him the modern and fashionable courtesy of the
`cut direct.'
Yet, after all, there was good, or something that Nature
intended to be so, in the poor outcast,—some lovely flowers,
the sweeter even for the weeds that choked them.
An instance of this was his affection for an aged father,
whose whole support was the broken reed—his son. Notwithstanding
his own necessities, Hugh contrived to provide
food and raiment for the old man,—how, it would be
difficult to say, and perhaps as well not to inquire. He
also exhibited traits of sensitiveness to neglect and insult,
and of gratitude for favors; both of which feelings a course
of life like his is usually quick to eradicate.
At length the restraint, for such his father had ever
been, upon Hugh Crombie's conduct, was removed by
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his death; and then the wise men and the old began to
shake their heads; and they who took pleasure in the follies,
vices, and misfortunes of their fellow-creatures, looked
for a speedy gratification. They were disappointed,
however; for Hugh had apparently determined, that,
whatever might be his catastrophe, he would meet it
among strangers, rather than at home. Shortly after his
father's death, he disappeared altogether from the vicinity;
and his name became, in the course of years, an unusual
sound, where once the lack of other topics of interest
had given it a considerable degree of notoriety. Sometimes,
however, when the winter blast was loud round the
lonely farm-house, its inmates remembered him who had
so often chased away the gloom of such an hour, and,
though with little expectation of its fulfilment, expressed a
wish to behold him again.
Yet that wish, formed perhaps because it appeared so
desperate, was finally destined to be gratified. One summer
evening, about two years previous to the period of
this tale, a man of sober and staid deportment, mounted
upon a white horse, arrived at the Hand and Bottle, to
which some civil or military meeting had chanced that
day to draw most of the inhabitants of the vicinity. The
stranger was well, though plainly dressed, and anywhere
but in a retired country town, would have attracted no
particular attention; but here, where a traveller was not
of every day occurrence, he was soon surrounded by a
little crowd, who, when his eye was averted, seized the
opportunity diligently to peruse his person. He was rather
a thick-set man, but with no superfluous flesh; his hair
was of iron-grey; he had a few wrinkles; his face was so
deeply sun burnt, that, excepting a half smothered glow
on the tip of his nose, a dusky yellow was the only apparent
hue. As the people gazed, it was observed that the
-- 042 --
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elderly men, and the men of substance, gat themselves
silently to their steeds, and hied homeward with an unusual
degree of haste; till at length the inn was deserted,
except by a few wretched objects to whom it was a constant
resort. These, instead of retreating, drew closer to
the traveller, peeping anxiously into his face, and asking,
ever and anon, a question, in order to discover the tone
of his voice. At length, with one consent, and as if the
recognition had at once burst upon them, they hailed their
old boon companion, Hugh Crombie, and leading him into
the inn, did him the honor to partake of a cup of welcome
at his expense.
But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the not very
reputable acquaintances, who alone acknowledged him,
they speedily discovered that he was an altered man.
He partook with great moderation of the liquor, for which
he was to pay; he declined all their flattering entreaties
for one of his old songs; and, finally, being urged to engage
in a game at all-fours, he calmly observed, almost
in the words of an old clergyman, on a like occasion, that
his principles forbade a profane appeal to the decision
by lot.
On the next sabbath, Hugh Crombie made his appearance
at public worship, in the chapel of Harley College,
and here his outward demeanor was unexceptionably serious
and devout,—a praise, which, on that particular occasion,
could be bestowed on few besides. From these
favorable symptons, the old established prejudices against
him began to waver; and, as he seemed not to need, and
to have no intention to ask, the assistance of any one, he
was soon generally acknowledged by the rich, as well as
by the poor. His account of his past life and of his intentions
for the future was brief, but not unsatisfactory.
He said, that, since his departure, he had been a
-- 043 --
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sea-faring man, and that, having acquired sufficient property to
render him easy in the decline of his days, he had returned
to live and die in the town of his nativity.
There was one person, and the one whom Hugh was
most interested to please, who seemed perfectly satisfied
of the verity of his reformation. This was the landlady
of the inn, whom, at his departure, he had left a gay,
and, even at thirty-five, a rather pretty wife, and whom,
on his return, he found a widow of fifty, fat, yellow, wrinkled,
and a zealous member of the church. She, like others,
had at first cast a cold eye on the wanderer; but it
shortly became evident, to close observers, that a change
was at work in the pious matron's sentiments, respecting
her old acquaintance. She was now careful to give him
his morning dram from her own peculiar bottle,—to fill
his pipe from her private box of Virginia,—and to mix
for him the sleeping cup, in which her late husband had
delighted. Of all these courtesies Hugh Crombie did
partake, with a wise and cautious moderation, that, while
it proved them to be welcome, expressed his fear of trespassing
on her kindness. For the sake of brevity, it shall
suffice to say, that, about six weeks after Hugh's return,
a writing appeared on one of the elm-trees in front of the
tavern, (where, as the place of greatest resort, such notices
were usually displayed) setting forth, that marriage
was intended between Hugh Crombie and the Widow
Sarah Hutchins. And the ceremony, which made Hugh
a landholder, a householder, and a substantial man, in
due time took place.
As a landlord, his general conduct was very praiseworthy.
He was moderate in his charges, and attentive
to his guests; he allowed no gross and evident disorders
in his house, and practised none himself; he was kind
and charitable to such as needed food and lodging, and
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
had not wherewithal to pay,—for with these his experience
had doubtless given him a fellow feeling. He was
also sufficiently attentive to his wife; though it must be
acknowledged that the religious zeal, which had had a
considerable influence in gaining her affections, grew, by
no moderate degrees, less fervent. It was whispered,
too, that the new landlord could, when time, place, and
company were to his mind, upraise a song as merrily, and
drink a glass as jollily as in the days of yore. These
were the weightiest charges that could now be brought
against him; and wise men thought, that, whatever might
have been the evil of his past life, he had returned with
a desire (which years of vice, if they do not sometimes
produce, do not always destroy) of being honest if opportunity
should offer;—and Hugh had certainly a fair one.
On the afternoon previous to the events related in the
last chapter, the personage, whose introduction to the
reader has occupied so large a space, was seated under
one of the elms, in front of his dwelling. The bench
which now sustained him, and on which were carved the
names of many former occupants, was Hugh Crombie's
favorite lounging place, unless when his attentions were
required by his guests. No demand had that day been
made upon the hospitality of the Hand and Bottle, and
the landlord was just then murmuring at the unfrequency
of employment. The slenderness of his profits, indeed,
were no part of his concern; for the Widow Hutchins'
chief income was drawn from her farm, nor was Hugh
ever miserly inclined. But his education and habits had
made him delight in the atmosphere of the Sun, and in
the society of those who frequented it; and of this species
of enjoyment his present situation certainly did not afford
an overplus.
Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appearance of
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
indolence and ease, as he sat under the old tree, polluting
the sweet air with his pipe, and taking occasional draughts
from a brown jug, that stood near at hand. The basis of
the potation contained in this vessel, was harsh old cider,
from the Widow's own orchard; but its coldness and acidity
were rendered innocuous by a due proportion of yet
older brandy. The result of this mixture was extremely
felicitous, pleasant to the taste, and producing a tingling
sensation on the coats of the stomach, uncommonly delectable
to so old a toper as Hugh.
The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, along the
road that led down the valley in the direction of the village;
and at last, when the sun was wearing westward,
he discovered the approach of a horseman. He immediately
replenished his pipe, took a long draught from the
brown jug, summoned the ragged youth who officiated in
most of the subordinate departments of the Inn, and who
was now to act as ostler; and then prepared himself for
confabulation with his guest.
`He comes from the sea-coast,' said Hugh to himself,
as the traveller emerged into open view on the level road.
`He is two days in advance of the post, with its news of
a fortnight old. Pray heaven, he prove communicative!'
Then as the stranger drew nigher, `one would judge that
his dark face had seen as hot a sun as mine. He has
felt the burning breeze of the Indies, East and West, I
warrant him. Ah, I see we shall send away the evening
merrily! Not a penny shall come out of his purse,—that
is, if his tongue runs glibly. Just the man I was praying
for—Now may the devil take me if he is!' interrupted
Hugh, in accents of alarm, and starting from his seat.
He composed his countenance, however, with the power
that long habit and necessity had given him over his emotions,
and again settled himself quietly on the bench.
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, alighted
and gave his horse to the ragged ostler. He then advanced
towards the door near which Hugh was seated,
whose agitation was manifested by no perceptible sign,
except by the shorter and more frequented puffs with
which he plied his pipe. Their eyes did not meet till just
as the stranger was about to enter, when he started apparently
with a surprise and alarm similar to those of Hugh
Crombie. He recovered himself, however, sufficiently to
return the nod of recognition with which he was favored,
and immediately entered the house, the landlord following.
`This way, if you please, Sir,' said Hugh. `You will
find this apartment cool and retired.'
He ushered his guest into a small room, the windows of
which were darkened by the creeping plants that clustered
round them. Entering and closing the door, the two
gazed at each other, a little space, without speaking.
The traveller first broke silence.
`Then this is your living self, Hugh Crombie?' he said.
The landlord extended his hand as a practical reply to the
question. The stranger took it, though with no especial
appearance of cordiality.
`Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood,' he said, in the
tone of one who would willingly have found it otherwise.
`And how happens this, friend Hugh? I little thought
to meet you again in this life. When I last heard from
you, your prayers were said, and you were bound for a
better world.'
`There would have been small danger of your meeting
me there,' observed the landlord, dryly.
`It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh,' replied the traveller.
`For which reason I regret that your voyage was
delayed.
`Nay, that is a hard word to bestow on your old
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comrade,' said Hugh Crombie. `The world is wide enough
for both of us, and why should you wish me out of it?'
`Wide as it is,' rejoined the stranger, `we have stumbled
against each other,—to the pleasure of neither of us,
if I may judge from your countenance. Methinks I am
not a welcome guest at Hugh Crombie's Inn.'
`Your welcome must depend on the cause of your coming
and the length of your stay,' replied the landlord.
`And what if I come to settle down among these quiet
hills where I was born?' inquired the other. `What if I,
too, am weary of the life we have led,—or afraid, perhaps,
that it will come to too speedy an end? Shall I have
your good word, Hugh, to set me up in an honest way of
life? Or will you make me a partner in your trade, since
you know my qualifications? A pretty pair of publicans
should we be, and the quart pot would have little rest between
us.'
`It may be as well to replenish it now,' observed
Hugh, stepping to the door of the room and giving orders
accordingly. `A meeting between old friends should
never be dry. But for the partnership, it is a matter
in which you must excuse me. Heaven knows, I
find it hard enough to be honest, with no tempter but
the devil and my own thoughts; and if I have you also
to contend with, there is little hope of me.'
`Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions were always
like cobwebs, and your evil habits like five inch cables,'
replied the traveller. `I am to understand, then, that
you refuse my offer?'
`Not only that,—but if you have chosen this valley as
your place of rest, Dame Crombie and I must look through
the world for another. But, hush,—here comes the wine.'
The ostler, in the performance of another part of his
duty, now appeared, bearing a measure of the liquor that
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[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
Hugh had ordered. The wine of that period, owing to
the comparative lowness of the duties, was of more moderate
price than in the mother country, and of purer and
better quality than at the present day.
`The stuff is well chosen, Hugh,' observed the guest,
after a draught large enough to authorize an opinion.
`You have most of the requisites for your present station,
and I should be sorry to draw you from it. I trust there
will be no need.'
`Yet you have a purpose in your journey hither,' observed
his comrade.
`Yes,—and you would fain be informed of it,' replied
the traveller. He arose and walked once or twice across
the room; then seeming to have taken his resolution, he
paused and fixed his eye stedfastly on Hugh Crombie.
`I could wish, my old acquaintance,' he said, `that your
lot had been cast any where rather than here. Yet if you
choose it, you may do me a good office, and one that shall
meet with a good reward. Can I trust you?'
`My secrecy, you can,' answered the host, `but nothing
farther. I know the nature of your plans, and
whither they would lead me, too well to engage in them.
To say the truth, since it concerns not me, I have little
desire to hear your secret.'
`And I as little to tell it, I do assure you,' rejoined the
guest. `I have always loved to manage my affairs myself,
and to keep them to myself. It is a good rule, but it must
sometimes be broken. And now, Hugh, how is it that
you have become possessed of this comfortable dwelling
and of these pleasant fields?'
`By my marriage with the Widow Sarah Hutchins,'
replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a question, which seemed
to have little reference to the present topic of conversation.
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`It is a most excellent method of becoming a man of
substance,' continued the traveller;—`attended with little
trouble, and honest withal.'
`Why, as to the trouble,' said the landlord, `it follows
such a bargain, instead of going before it. And for honesty—
I do not recollect that I have gained a penny more
honestly these twenty years.'
`I can swear to that,' observed his comrade. `Well,
mine host, I entirely approve of your doings; and, moreover,
have resolved to prosper after the same fashion myself.
'
`If that be the commodity you seek,' replied Hugh
Crombie, `you will find none here to your mind. We
have widows in plenty, it is true, but most of them have
children and few have houses and lands. But now to be
serious—and there has been something serious in your
eye, all this while—what is your purpose in coming hither?
You are not safe here. Your name has had a wider
spread than mine, and if discovered it will go hard with
you.'
`But who would know me, now?' asked the guest.
`Few,—few indeed,' replied the landlord, gazing at the
dark features of his companion, where hardship, peril
and dissipation had each left their traces. `No, you are
not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood on the hill
by moonlight, to take a last look at his father's cottage.
There were tears in your eyes, then; and as often as I
remember them, I repent that I did not turn you back,
instead of leading you on.'
`Tears, were there? Well, there have been few enough
since,' said his comrade, pressing his eyelids firmly together,
as if even then tempted to give way to the weakness
that he scorned. `And for turning me back, Hugh,
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it was beyond your power. I had taken my resolution,
and you did but shew me the way to execute it.'
`You have not inquired after those you left behind,'
observed Hugh Crombie.
`No,—no;—nor will I have aught of them,' exclaimed
the traveller, starting from his seat, and pacing rapidly
across the room. `My father, I know, is dead, and I
have forgiven him. My mother—What could I hear of
her, but misery?—I will hear nothing.'
`You must have passed the cottage, as you rode hitherward,
' said Hugh. `How could you forbear to enter?'
`I did not see it,' he replied. `I closed my eyes and
turned away my head.'
`Oh, if I had had a mother—a loving mother,—if there
had been one being in the world, that loved me or cared
for me, I should not have become an utter cast away,'
exclaimed Hugh Crombie.
The landlord's pathos,—like all pathos that flows from
the wine cup,—was sufficiently ridiculous; and his companion,
who had already overcome his own brief feelings
of sorrow and remorse, now laughed aloud.
`Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle,' he
cried, in his usual hard, sarcastic tone; `be a man, as
much as in you lies. You had always a foolish trick of
repentance; but, as I remember, it was commonly of a
morning, before you had swallowed your first dram. And
now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and we will to business.
'
When the landlord had complied with the wishes of
his guest, the latter resumed in a lower tone than that of
his ordinary conversation.
`There is a young lady, lately become a resident hereabouts.
Perhaps you can guess her name; for you have
a quick apprehension in these matters.'
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`A young lady?' repeated Hugh Crombie. `And what
is your concern with her? Do you mean Ellen Langton,
daughter of the old Merchant Langton, whom you have
some cause to remember?'
`I do remember him; but he is where he will speedily
be forgotten,' answered the traveller. `And this girl—
I know your eye has been upon her, Hugh. Describe
her to me.'
`Describe her,' exclaimed Hugh, with much animation.
`It is impossible, in prose; but you shall have her very
picture, in a verse of one of my own songs.'
`Nay, mine host, I beseech you to spare me. This is
no time for quavering,' said the guest. `However, I am
proud of your approbation, my old friend,—for this young
lady do I intend to take to wife. What think you of
the plan?'
Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion's face, for the
space of a moment, in silence. There was nothing in its
expression that looked like a jest. It still retained the
same hard, cold look, that, except when Hugh had alluded
to his home and family, it had worn through their
whole conversation.
`On my word, comrade,' he at length replied, `my advice
is, that you give over your application to the quart
pot, and refresh your brain by a short nap. And yet,
your eye is cool and steady. What is the meaning of this?'
`Listen, and you shall know,' said the guest. `The
old man, her father, is in his grave.'—
`Not a bloody grave, I trust,' interrupted the landlord,
starting, and looking fearfully into his comrade's face.
`No, a watery one,' he replied, calmly. `You see,
Hugh, I am a better man than you took me for. The
old man's blood is not on my head, though my wrongs are
on his. Now listen. He had no heir but this only
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daughter; and to her, and to the man she marries, all his wealth
will belong. She shall marry me. Think you her father
will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crombie, when I
am his son-in-law?'
`No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need be,' answered
the landlord. `But the dead need not interpose to
frustrate so wild a scheme.'
`I understand you,' said his comrade. `You are of
opinion that the young lady's consent may not be so soon
won as asked. Fear not for that, mine host. I have a
winning way with me, when opportunity serves; and it
shall serve with Ellen Langton. I will have no rivals in
my wooing.'
`Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get this poor
girl into your power, and then to force her into a marriage,
' said Hugh Crombie.
`It is; and I think I possess the means of doing it,'
replied his comrade. `But methinks, friend Hugh, my
enterprise has not your good wishes.'
`No; and I pray you to give it over,' said Hugh Crombie,
very earnestly. `The girl is young, lovely, and as
good as she is fair. I cannot aid in her ruin. Nay more—
I must prevent it.'
`Prevent it!' exclaimed the traveller, with a darkening
countenance. `Think twice before you stir in this
matter, I advise you. Ruin, do you say? Does a girl
call it ruin, to be made an honest wedded wife? No, no,
mine host; nor does a widow either,—else have you much
to answer for.'
`I gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at least; which
is more than poor Ellen is like to get,' observed the landlord.
`My old comrade, will you not give up this scheme?'
`My old comrade, I will not give up this scheme,' returned
the other, composedly. `Why, Hugh, what has
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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
come over you, since we last met? Have we not done
twenty worse deeds of a morning, and laughed over them
at night?'
`He is right there,' said Hugh Crombie, in a meditative
tone. `Of a certainty, my conscience has grown
unreasonably tender, within the last two years. This
one small sin, if I were to aid in it, would add but a trifle
to the sum of mine. But then the poor girl.'—
His companion overheard him thus communing with
himself, and having had much former experience of his
infirmity of purpose, doubted not that he should bend
him to his will. In fact, his arguments were so effectual,
that Hugh at length, though reluctantly, promised his
co-operation. It was necessary that their motions
should be speedy; for, on the second day thereafter,
the arrival of the post would bring intelligence of the
shipwreck, by which Mr. Langton had perished.
`And after the deed is done,' said the landlord, `I beseech
you never to cross my path again. There have
been more wicked thoughts in my head, within the last
hour, than for the whole two years that I have been an
honest man.'
`What a saint art thou become, Hugh!' said his comrade.
`But fear not that we shall meet again. When I
leave this valley, it will be to enter it no more.'
`And there is little danger that any other, who has
known me, will chance upon me here,' observed Hugh
Crombie. `Our trade was unfavorable to length of days,
and I suppose most of our old comrades have arrived at
the end of theirs.'
`One, whom you knew well, is nearer to you than you
think,' answered the traveller; `for I did not travel hitherward
entirely alone.'
-- 054 --
CHAPTER V.
A naughty night to swim in.
Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
The evening of the day succeeding the adventure of
the angler, was dark and tempestuous. The rain descended
almost in a continued sheet, and occasional powerful
gusts of wind drove it hard against the north-eastern windows
of Hugh Crombie's inn. But at least one apartment
of the interior presented a scene of comfort, and of
apparent enjoyment; the more delightful from its contrast
with the elemental fury that raged without. A fire,
which the chillness of the evening, though a summer
one, made necessary, was burning brightly on the
hearth; and in front was placed a small round table,
sustaining wine and glasses. One of the guests, for
whom these preparations had been made, was Edward
Walcott. The other was a shy, awkward young man,
distinguished, by the union of classic and rural dress, as
having but lately become a student of Harley College.
He seemed little at his ease,—probably from a consciousness
that he was on forbidden ground, and that the
wine, of which he nevertheless swallowed a larger share
than his companion, was an unlawful draught.
In the catalogue of crimes, provided against by the
laws of Harley College, that of tavern-haunting was one
of the principal. The secluded situation of the Seminary,
indeed, gave its scholars but a very limited choice of
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
vices; and this was therefore the usual channel by which
the wildness of youth discharged itself. Edward Walcott,
though naturally temperate, had been not an unfrequent
offender in this respect; for which a superfluity both of
time and money might plead some excuse. But since
his acquaintance with Ellen Langton he had rarely entered
Hugh Crombie's doors; and an interruption in
that acquaintance was the cause of his present appearance
there.
Edward's jealous pride had been considerably touched
on Ellen's compliance with the request of the angler.
He had by degrees, imperceptible perhaps to himself, assumed
the right of feeling displeased with her conduct;
and she had as imperceptibly accustomed herself to consider
what would be his wishes, and to act accordingly.
He would, indeed, in no contingency, have ventured an
open remonstrance; and such a proceeding would have
been attended by a result, the reverse of what he desired.
But there existed between them a silent compact (acknowledged
perhaps by neither, but felt by both) according
to which they had regulated the latter part of
their intercourse. Their lips had yet spoken no word
of love; but some of love's rights and privileges had
been assumed on the one side, and at least not disallowed
on the other.
Edward's penetration had been sufficiently quick to
discover that there was a mystery about the angler—that
there must have been a cause for the blush that rose so
proudly on Ellen's cheek; and his quixotism had been
not a little mortified, because she did not immediately
appeal to his protection. He had however paid his usual
visit, the next day, at Doctor Melmoth's, expecting
that, by a smile of more than common brightness, she
would make amends to his wounded feelings,—such
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
having been her usual mode of reparation, in the few instances
of disagreement that had occurred between them.
But he was diappointed. He found her cold, silent, and
abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, and indisposed to
speak herself. Her eye was sedulously averted from
his; and the casual meeting of their glances, only proved,
that there were feelings in her bosom which he did
not share. He was unable to account for this change in
her deportment; and, added to his previous conceptions
of his wrongs, it produced an effect upon his rather hasty
temper, that might have manifested itself violently,
but for the presence of Mrs. Melmoth. He took his
leave in very evident displeasure; but, just as he closed
the door, he noticed an expression in Ellen's countenance,
that, had they been alone, and had not he been
quite so proud, would have drawn him down to her feet.
Their eyes met,—when, suddenly, there was a gush of
tears into those of Ellen, and a deep sadness, almost
despair, spread itself over her features. He paused a
moment, and then went his way; equally unable to account
for her coldness, or for her grief. He was well
aware, however, that his situation in respect to her, was
unaccountably changed,—a conviction so disagreeable,
that, but for a hope that is latent, even in the despair of
youthful hearts, he could have been sorely tempted to
shoot himself.
The gloom of his thoughts—a mood of mind the more
intolerable to him, because so unusual—had driven him
to Hugh Crombie's inn, in search of artificial excitement.
But even the wine had no attractions; and his
first glass stood now almost untouched before him, while
he gazed in heavy thought into the glowing embers of
the fire. His companion perceived his melancholy, and
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
essayed to dispel it by a choice of such topics of conversation,
as he conceived would be most agreeable.
`There is a lady in the house,' he observed. `I caught
a glimpse of her in the passage, as we came in. Did
you see her, Edward?'
`A lady,' repeated Edward carelessly. `What know
you of ladies? No, I did not see her; but I will venture
to say that it was dame Crombie's self, and no
other.'
`Well, perhaps it might,' said the other, doubtingly.
`Her head was turned from me, and she was gone like a
shadow.'
`Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes
like one,' resumed Edward. `You have mistaken the
slip-shod servant girl for a lady.'
`Ay, but she had a white hand, a small white hand,'
said the student, piqued at Edward's contemptuous opinion
of his powers of observation,—`as white as Ellen
Langton's. He paused, for the lover was offended by
the profanity of the comparison, as was made evident by
the blood that rushed to his brow.
`We will appeal to the landlord,' said Edward, recovering
his equanimity, and turning to Hugh, who just
then entered the room—`Who is this angel, mine host,
that has taken up her abode in the Hand and Bottle?'
Hugh cast a quick glance from one to another, before
he answered, `I keep no angels here, gentlemen. Dame
Crombie would make the house any thing but heaven, for
them and me.'
`And yet Glover has seen a vision in the passage way,—
a lady with a small white hand.'
`Ah! I understand,—a slight mistake of the young
gentleman's,' said Hugh, with the air of one who could
perfectly account for the mystery. `Our passage way is
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
dark,—or perhaps the light had dazzled his eyes. It
was the widow Fowler's daughter, that came to borrow a
pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the same token, she
put it into her own sweet mouth, and puffed as she went
along.'
`But the white hand,' said Glover, only half convinced.
`Nay, I know not,' answered Hugh, `but her hand was
at least as white as her face; that I can swear. Well,
gentlemen, I trust you find every thing in my house to
your satisfaction. When the fire needs renewing, or the
wine runs low, be pleased to tap on the table. I shall
appear with the speed of a sunbeam.
After the departure of the landlord, the conversation
of the young men amounted to little more than monosyllables.
Edward Walcott was wrapped in his own contemplations,
and his companion was in a half slumberous
state, from which he started every quarter of an hour, at
the chiming of the clock that stood in a corner. The
fire died gradually away, the lamps began to burn dim,
and Glover, rousing himself from one of his periodical
slumbers, was about to propose a return to their chambers.
He was prevented, however, by the approach of
footsteps along the passage way; and Hugh Crombie,
opening the door, ushered a person into the room, and
retired.
The new comer was Fanshawe. The water, that
poured plentifully from his cloak, evinced that he had
but just arrived at the inn; but whatever was his object,
he seemed not to have attained it, in meeting with the
young men. He paused near the door, as if meditating
whether to retire.
`My intrusion is altogether owing to a mistake, either
of the landlord's, or mine,' he said; `I came hither to
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
seek another person; but as I could not mention his
name, my inquiries were rather vague.'
`I thank heaven for the chance that sent you to us,'
replied Edward, rousing himself; Glover is wretched
company, and a duller evening have I never spent. We
will renew our fire, and our wine, and you must sit down
with us. And for the man you seek,' he continued in a
whisper, `he left the inn within a half hour after we encountered
him. I inquired of Hugh Crombie, last
night.'
Fanshawe did not express his doubts of the correctness
of the information on which Edward seemed to rely.
Laying aside his cloak, he accepted his invitation
to make one of the party, and sat down by the fireside.
The aspect of the evening now gradually changed. A
strange wild glee spread from one to another of the party,
which, much to the surprise of his companions, began
with, and was communicated from, Fanshawe. He
seemed to overflow with conceptions, inimitably ludicrous,
but so singular, that, till his hearers had imbibed
a portion of his own spirit, they could only wonder at, instead
of enjoying them. His application to the wine
were very unfrequent; yet his conversation was such as
one might expect from a bottle of champagne, endowed
by a fairy with the gift of speech. The secret of this
strange mirth lay in the troubled state of his spirits,
which, like the vexed ocean at midnight, (if the simile
be not too magnificent) tossed forth a myterious brightness.
The undefined apprehensions, that had drawn him
to the inn, still distracted his mind; but mixed with them,
there was a sort of joy, not easily to be described. By
degrees, and by the assistance of the wine, the inspiration
spread, each one contributing such a quantity, and
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
such quality of wit and whim, as was proportioned to
his genius; but each one, and all, displaying a greater
share of both, than they had ever been suspected of possessing.
At length, however, there was a pause,—the deep
pause of flagging spirits, that always follows mirth and
wine. No one would have believed, on beholding the
pensive faces, and hearing the involuntary sighs, of the
party, that from these, but a moment before, had arisen
so loud and wild a laugh. During this interval, Edward
Walcott, (who was the poet of his class,) volunteered the
following song, which, from its want of polish, and from
its application to his present feelings, might charitably be
taken for an extemporaneous production.
The wine is bright, the wine is bright,
And gay the drinkers be;
Of all that drain the bowl to-night,
Most jollily drain we.
Oh, could one search the weary earth,
The earth from sea to sea,—
He'd turn and mingle in our mirth,
For we're the merriest three.
Yet there are cares, oh, heavy cares,—
We know that they are nigh;
When forth each lonely drinker fares,
Mark then his altered eye.
Care comes upon us when the jest,
And frantic laughter, die;
And care will watch the parting guest,—
O late, then, let us fly!
Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and minstrelsy
was still alive, had entered the room at the sound
of Edward's voice, in sufficient time to accompany the
second stanza on the violin. He now, with the air of
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
one who was entitled to judge in these matters, expressed
his opinion of the performance.
`Really, master Walcott, I was not prepared for this,'
he said, in the tone of condescending praise, that a great
man uses to his inferior, when he chooses to overwhelm
him with excess of joy. `Very well, indeed, young gentleman.
Some of the lines, it is true, seem to have been
dragged in by the head and shoulders; but I could
scarcely have done much better myself, at your age.
With practice, and with such instruction as I might afford
you, I should have little doubt of your becoming a
distinguished poet. A great defect in your seminary,
gentlemen,—the want of due cultivation in this heavenly
art.'
`Perhaps, Sir,' said Edward, with much gravity, `you
might yourself be prevailed upon to accept the Professorship
of Poetry?'
`Why, such an offer would require consideration,' replied
the landlord. `Professor Hugh Crombie, of Harley
College;—it has a good sound, assuredly. But I
am a public man, Master Walcott, and the public would
be loath to spare me from my present office.'
`Will Professor Crombie favor us with a specimen of
his productions?' inquired Edward.
`Ahem, I shall be happy to gratify you, young gentleman,
' answered Hugh. `It is seldom, in this rude country,
Master Walcott, that we meet with kindred genius;
and the opportunity should never be thrown away.'
Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the liquor by
which he was usually inspired, and the praises of which
were the prevailing subject of his song. Then, after
much hemming, thrumming, and prelusion, and with many
queer gestures and gesticulations, he began to effuse
a lyric, in the following fashion.
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
I've been a jolly drinker, this five and twenty year,
And still a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here;
I sing the joys of drinking;—bear a chorus every man,
With pint pot, and quart pot, and clattering of can.
The sense of the Professor's first stanza, was not in
exact proportion to the sound; but being executed with
great spirit, it attracted universal applause. This, Hugh
appropriated with a condescending bow and smile; and
making a signal for silence, he went on—
King Solomon of old, boys, (a jolly king was he,)—
But here he was interrupted by a clapping of hands, that
seemed a continuance of the applause bestowed on his
former stanza. Hugh Crombie, who, as is the custom
of many great performers, usually sang with his eyes
shut, now opened them, intending gently to rebuke his
auditors for their unseasonable expression of delight.
He immediately perceived, however, that the fault was
to be attributed to neither of the three young men; and
following the direction of their eyes, he saw, near the door,
in the dim back-ground of the apartment, a figure in a
cloak. The hat was flapped forward, the cloak muffled
round the lower part of the face, and only the eyes were
visible.
The party gazed a moment in silence, and then rushed
en masse upon the intruder, the landlord bringing up
the rear, and sounding a charge upon his fiddle. But as
they drew nigh, the black cloak began to assume a familiar
look,—the hat, also, was an old acquaintance;—
and these being removed, from beneath them shone
forth the reverend face and form of Doctor Melmoth.
The President, in his quality of clergyman, had, late in
the preceding afternoon, been called to visit an aged
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
female, who was supposed to be at the point of death.
Her habitation was at the distance of several miles from
Harley College; so that it was night-fall before Doctor
Melmoth stood at her bed-side. His stay had been
lengthened beyond his anticipation, on account of the
frame of mind in which he found the dying woman; and
after essaying to impart the comforts of religion to her
disturbed intellect, he had waited for the abatement of
the storm, that had arisen while he was thus engaged.
As the evening advanced, however, the rain poured
down in undiminished cataracts; and the Doctor, trusting
to the prudence, and sure-footedness of his steed, had, at
length, set forth on his return. The darkness of the
night, and the roughness of the road, might have appalled
him, even had his horsemanship and his courage been
more considerable than they were; but by the special
protection of Providence, as he reasonably supposed,
(for he was a good man, and on a good errand,)
he arrived safely as far as Hugh Crombie's inn.—
Doctor Melmoth had no intention of making a stay
there; but as the road passed within a very short distance,
he saw lights in the windows, and heard the
sound of song and revelry. It immediately occurred to
him, that these midnight rioters were, probably, some of
the young men of his charge, and he was impelled, by a
sense of duty, to enter and disperse them. Directed by
the voices, he found his way, with some difficulty, to the
apartment, just as Hugh concluded his first stanza, and
amidst the subsequent applause, his entrance had been unperceived.
There was a silence of a moment's continuance, after
the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, during which he attempted
to clothe his round, good-natured face, in a look of
awful dignity. But, in spite of himself, there was a little
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
twisting of the corners of his mouth, and a smothered
gleam in his eye.
`This has apparently been a very merry meeting,
young gentlemen,' he at length said; `but I fear my
presence has cast a damp upon it.'
`Oh, yes! your Reverence's cloak is wet enough to
cast a damp upon anything,' exclaimed Hugh Crombie,
assuming a look of tender anxiety. `The young gentlemen
are affrighted for your valuable life. Fear deprives
them of utterance; permit me to relieve you of
these dangerous garments.'
`Trouble not yourself, honest man,' replied the Doctor,
who was one of the most gullible of mortals. `I trust
I am in no danger, my dwelling being near at hand.
But for these young men—'
`Would your reverence but honor my Sunday suit—
the gray broadcloth coat, and the black velvet smallclothes,
that have covered my unworthy legs but once?
Dame Crombie shall have them ready in a moment,' continued
Hugh, beginning to divest the Doctor of his garments.
`I pray you to appease your anxiety,' cried Doctor
Melmoth, retaining a firm hold on such parts of his dress
as yet remained to him. `Fear not for my health. I
will but speak a word to those misguided youth, and begone.
'
`Misguided youth, did your reverence say?' echoed
Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment. `Never were
they better guided, than when they entered my poor
house. Oh! had your reverence but seen them, when I
heard their cries, and rushed forth to their assistance.
Dripping with wet were they, like three drowned men at
the resurrec—ahem!' interrupted Hugh, recollecting that
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
the comparison he meditated might not suit the Doctor's
ideas of propriety.
`But why were they abroad on such a night?' inquired
the President.
`Ah! doctor, you little know the love these good
young gentlemen bear for you,' replied the landlord.
`Your absence—your long absence—had alarmed them;
and they rushed forth through the rain and darkness to
seek you.'
`And was this indeed so?' asked the doctor in a softened
tone, and casting a tender and grateful look upon
the three students. They, it is but justice to mention,
had simultaneously made a step forward, in order to contradict
the egregious falsehoods, of which Hugh's fancy
was so fertile; but he assumed an expression of such ludicrous
entreaty, that it was irresistible.
`But methinks their anxiety was not of long continuance,
' observed doctor Melmoth, looking at the wine,
and remembering the song that his entrance had interrupted.
`Ah! your reverence disapproves of the wine, I see,'
answered Hugh Crombie. `I did but offer them a drop,
to keep the life in their poor young hearts. My dame
advised strong waters; but, dame Crombie, says I, would
ye corrupt their youth? And in my zeal for their good,
doctor, I was delighting them, just at your entrance, with
a pious little melody of my own, against the sin of
drunkenness.'
`Truly, I remember something of the kind,' observed
doctor Melmoth; `and, as I think, it seemed to meet with
good acceptance.'
`Aye, that it did,' said the landlord. `Will it please
your reverence to hear it?'
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
King Solomon of old, boys, (a wise man I'm thinking,)
Has warned you to beware of the horrid vice of drinking—”
But why I talk of drinking, foolish man that I am! and all
this time, doctor, you have not sipped a drop of my wine.
Now, I entreat your reverence, as you value your health,
and the peace and quiet of these youth.'
Doctor Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the benevolent
intention of allaying the anxiety of Hugh Crombie
and the students. He then prepared to depart; for a
strong wind had partially dispersed the clouds, and occasioned
an interval in the cataract of rain. There was,
perhaps, a little suspicion yet remaining in the good man's
mind, respecting the truth of the landlord's story;—at
least, it was his evident intention, to see the students
fairly out of the inn, before he quitted it himself. They
therefore proceeded along the passage way in a body.—
The lamp that Hugh Crombie held, but dimly enlightened
them, and the number and contiguity of the doors,
caused doctor Melmoth to lay his hand upon the wrong
one.
`Not there, not there, doctor! It is dame Crombie's
bed-chamber,' shouted Hugh, most energetically. `Now
Belzebub defend me,' he muttered to himself, perceiving
that his exclamation had been a moment too late.
`Heavens! what do I see?' ejaculated doctor Melmoth,
lifting his hands, and starting back from the entrance
of the room. The three students pressed forward;—
Mrs. Crombie and the servant girl had been drawn to
the spot, by the sound of Hugh's voice; and all their
wondering eyes were fixed on poor Ellen Langton.
The apartment, in the midst of which she stood, was
dimly lighted by a solitary candle, at the farther extremity;
but Ellen was exposed to the glare of the three
lamps, held by Hugh, his wife, and the servant girl.
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
Their combined rays seemed to form a focus exactly at
the point where they reached her; and the beholders,
had any been sufficiently calm, might have watched her
features, in their agitated workings, and frequent change
of expression, as perfectly as by the broad light of day.
Terror had at first blanched her as white as a lily, or as
a marble statue, which for a moment she resembled, as
she stood motionless in the centre of the room. Shame
next bore sway; and her blushing countenance, covered
by her slender white fingers, might fantastically be
compared to a variegated rose, with its alternate stripes
of white and red. The next instant, a sense of her pure
and innocent intentions gave her strength and courage;
and her attitude and look had now something of pride
and dignity. These, however, in their turn gave way;
for Edward Walcott pressed forward, and attempted to
address her.
`Ellen, Ellen,' he said in an agitated and quivering
whisper;—but what was to follow cannot be known, for
his emotion checked his utterance. His tone, and look,
however, again overcame Ellen Langton, and she burst
to tears. Fanshawe advanced and took Edward's arm;
`she has been deceived,' he whispered—`she is innocent.
You are unworthy of her if you doubt it.'
`Why do you interfere, Sir?' demanded Edward,
whose passions, thoroughly excited, would willingly have
wreaked themselves on any one. `What right have you
to speak of her innocence? Perhaps,' he continued, an
undefined and ridiculous suspicion arising in his mind,
`perhaps you are acquainted with her intentions. Perhaps
you are the deceiver.'
Fanshawe's temper was not naturally of the meekest
character; and having had a thousand bitter feelings of
his own to overcome, before he could attempt to console
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
Edward, this rude repulse had almost aroused him to
fierceness. But his pride, of which a more moderate
degree would have had a less peaceable effect, came to
his assistance, and he turned calmly and contemptuously
away.
Ellen, in the meantime, had been restored to some degree
of composure. To this effect, a feeling of pique
against Edward Walcott had contributed. She had distinguished
his voice in the neighbouring apartment,—had
heard his mirth and wild laughter, without being aware
of the state of feeling that produced them. She had supposed
that the terms on which they parted in the morning,
(which had been very grievous to herself,) would
have produced a corresponding sadness in him. But
while she sat in loneliness and in tears, her bosom distracted
by a thousand anxieties and sorrows, of many of
which Edward was the object, his reckless gaiety had
seemed to prove the slight regard in which he held her.
After the first outbreak of emotion, therefore, she called
up her pride (of which, on proper occasions, she had a
reasonable share,) and sustained his upbraiding glance
with a passive composure, which women have more readily
at command than men.
Doctor Melmoth's surprise had, during this time, kept
him silent and inactive. He gazed alternately from one to
another, of those who stood around him, as if to seek some
explanation of so strange an event. But the faces of all
were as perplexed as his own;—even Hugh Crombie had
assumed a look of speechless wonder,—speechless, because
his imagination, prolific as it was, could not supply
a plausible falsehood.
`Ellen, dearest child,' at length said the doctor, `what
is the meaning of this?'
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
Ellen endeavored to reply; but, as her composure
was merely external, she was unable to render her
words audible. Fanshawe spoke in a low voice to doctor
Melmoth, who appeared grateful for his advice.
`True, it will be the better way,' he replied. `My
wits are utterly confounded, or I should not have remained
thus long. Come, my dear child,' he continued, advancing
to Ellen, and taking her hand, `let us return
home, and defer the explanation till the morrow. There,
there; only dry your eyes, and we will say no more
about it.'
`And that will be your wisest way, old gentleman,'
muttered Hugh Crombie.
Ellen at first exhibited but little desire—or, rather, an
evident reluctance—to accompany her guardian. She
hung back, while her glance passed almost imperceptibly
over the faces that gazed so eagerly at her; but the one
she sought was not visible among them. She had no
alternative, and suffered herself to be led from the inn.
Edward Walcott, alone, remained behind,—the most
wretched being, (at least such was his own opinion,) that
breathed the vital air. He felt a sinking and sickness of
the heart, and alternately a feverish frenzy, neither of
which his short and cloudless existence had heretofore
occasioned him to experience. He was jealous of, he
knew not whom, and he knew not what. He was ungenerous
enough to believe that Ellen—his pure and
lovely Ellen—had degraded herself; though from what
motive, or by whose agency, he could not conjecture.
When doctor Melmoth had taken her in charge, Edward
returned to the apartment where he had spent the evening.
The wine was still upon the table, and in the desperate
hope of stupifying his faculties, he unwisely
swallowed huge successive draughts. The effect of his
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
imprudence was not long in manifesting itself; though insensibility,
which at another time would have been the
result, did not now follow. Acting upon his previous agitation,
the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame; and
for the time being, he was a perfect madman.
A phrenologist would probably have found the organ
of destructiveness in strong developement, just then, upon
Edward's cranium; for he certainly manifested an
impulse to break and destroy whatever chanced to be
within his reach. He commenced his operations by upsetting
the table and breaking the bottles and glasses.
Then, seizing a tall heavy chair in each hand, he hurled
them, with prodigious force, one through the window, and
the other against a large looking-glass, the most valuable
article of furniture in Hugh Crombie's inn. The
crash and clatter of these outrageous proceedings, soon
brought the master, mistress, and maid-servant to the
scene of action; but the two latter, at the first sight
of Edward's wild demeanor and gleaming eyes, retreated
with all imaginable expedition. Hugh chose a position
behind the door, from whence protruding his head,
he endeavored to mollify his inebriated guest. His interference,
however, had nearly been productive of most
unfortunate consequences; for a massive andiron, with
round brazen head, whizzed past him, within a hair's
breadth of his ear.
`I might as safely take my chance in a battle,' exclaimed
Hugh, withdrawing his head, and speaking to a
man who stood in the passage way. `A little twist of his
hand to the left would have served my turn, as well as if
I stood in the path of a forty-two pound ball. And here
comes another broadside,' he added, as some other article
of furniture rattled against the door.
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
`Let us return his fire, Hugh, said the person whom
he addressed, composedly lifting the andiron. `He is in
want of ammunition; let us send him back his own.'
The sound of this man's voice produced a most singular
effect upon Edward. The moment before, his actions
had been those of a raving maniac; but when the words
struck his ear, he paused, put his hand to his forehead,
seemed to recollect himself, and finally advanced with a
firm and steady step. His countenance was dark and
angry, but no longer wild.
`I have found you, villain,' he said to the angler. `It
is you who have done this.'
`And having done it, the wrath of a boy—his drunken
wrath—will not induce me to deny it,' replied the other
scornfully.
`The boy will require a man's satisfaction,' returned
Edward;—`and that speedily.'
`Will you take it now?' inquired the angler, with a
cool, derisive smile, and almost in a whisper. At the
same time he produced a brace of pistols, and held them
towards the young man.
`Willingly,' answered Edward, taking one of the weapons.
`Choose your distance.'
The angler stepped back a pace; but before their
deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, could be executed,
Hugh Crombie interposed himself between them.
`Do you take my best parlour for the cabin of the
Black Andrew, where a pistol shot was a nightly pas-time?
' he inquired of his comrade. `And you, master
Edward, with what sort of a face will you walk into the
chapel, to morning prayers, after putting a ball through
this man's head, or receiving one through your own?—
Though in this last case, you will be past praying for, or
praying, either.'
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
`Stand aside,—I will take the risk. Make way, or I
will put the ball through your own head,' exclaimed Edward,
fiercely; for the interval of rationality, that circumstances
had produced, was again giving way to intoxication.
`You see how it is,' said Hugh to his companion, unheard
by Edward. `You shall take a shot at me, sooner
than at the poor lad in his present state. You have done
him harm enough already, and intend him more. I propose,
' he continued aloud, and with a peculiar glance towards
the angler, `that this affair be decided to-morrow,
at nine o'clock, under the old oak, on the bank of the
stream. In the meantime I will take charge of these
pop-guns, for fear of accidents.'
`Well, mine host, be it as you wish,' said his comrade.
A shot, more or less, is of little consequence to me.' He
accordingly delivered his weapon to Hugh Crombie, and
walked carelessly away.
`Come, master Walcott, the enemy has retreated.
Victoria! And now, I see, the sooner I get you to your
chamber, the better,' added he aside; for the wine was
at last beginning to produce its legitimate effect, in stupifying
the young man's mental and bodily faculties.
Hugh Crombie's assistance, though not perhaps quite
indispensable, was certainly very convenient to our unfortunate
hero, in the course of the short walk that brought
him to his chamber. When arrived there, and in bed, he
was soon locked in a sleep, scarcely less deep than that
of death.
The weather, during the last hour, had appeared to be
on the point of changing;—indeed, there were every few
minutes, most rapid changes. A strong breeze sometimes
drove the clouds from the brow of heaven, so as
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to disclose a few of the stars; but, immediately after, the
darkness would again become Egyptian, and the rain
rush like a torrent from the sky.
CHAPTER VI.
About her neck a packet-mail
Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale,
Of men that walked when they were dead.
Hudibras.
Scarcely a word had passed between doctor Melmoth
and Ellen Langton, on their way home; for, though the
former was aware that his duty towards his ward would
compel him to inquire into the motives of her conduct,
the tenderness of his heart prompted him to defer the
scrutiny to the latest moment. The same tenderness induced
him to connive at Ellen's stealing secretly up to
her chamber, unseen by Mrs. Melmoth; to render which
measure practicable, he opened the house door very
softly, and stood before his half-sleeping spouse, (who
waited his arrival in the parlor,) without any previous notice.
This act of the doctor's benevolence was not destitute
of heroism; for he was well assured, that, should
the affair come to the lady's knowledge through any other
channel, her vengeance would descend not less heavily
on him for concealing, than on Ellen for perpetrating
-- 074 --
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the elopement. That she had, thus far, no suspicion of
the fact, was evident from her composure, as well as from
the reply to a question, which, with more than his usual
art, her husband put to her respecting the non-appearance
of his ward. Mrs. Melmoth answered that Ellen
had complained of indisposition, and, after drinking, by
her prescription, a large cup of herb-tea, had retired to
her chamber, early in the evening. Thankful that all
was yet safe, the doctor laid his head upon his pillow;
but, late as was the hour, his many anxious thoughts
long drove sleep from his eyelids.
The diminution in the quantity of his natural rest, did
not, however, prevent doctor Melmoth from rising at his
usual hour, which, at all seasons of the year, was an early
one. He found, on descending to the parlor, that
breakfast was nearly in readiness; for the lady of the
house, (and, as a corollary, her servant girl,) was not
accustomed to await the rising of the sun, in order to
commence her domestic labors. Ellen Langton, however,
who had heretofore assimilated her habits to those of
the family, was this morning invisible,—a circumstance
imputed by Mrs. Melmoth to her indisposition of the preceding
evening, and by the doctor to mortification, on
account of her elopement, and its discovery.
`I think I will step into Ellen's bed-chamber,' said
Mrs. Melmoth, `and inquire how she feels herself. The
morning is delightful after the storm, and the air will do
her good.'
`Had we not better proceed with our breakfast? If
the poor child is sleeping, it were a pity to disturb her,'
observed the doctor; for, besides his sympathy with Ellen's
feelings, he was reluctant, as if he were the guilty
one, to meet her face.
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`Well, be it so. And now sit down, doctor, for the
hot cakes are cooling fast. I suppose you will say they
are not so good as those Ellen made, yesterday morning.
I know not how you will bear to part with her; though
the thing must soon be.'
`It will be a sore trial, doubtless,' replied doctor Melmoth—
`like tearing away a branch that is grafted on an
old tree. And yet there will be a satisfaction in delivering
her safe into her father's hands.'
`A satisfaction for which you may thank me, doctor,'
observed the lady, `If there had been none but you to
look after the poor thing's doings, she would have been
enticed away long ere this, for the sake of her money.'
Doctor Melmoth's prudence could scarcely restrain a
smile at the thought, that an elopement, as he had reason
to believe, had been plotted, and partly carried into execution,
while Ellen was under the sole care of his lady;
and had been frustrated only by his own despised agency.
He was not accustomed, however,—nor was this an
eligible occasion,—to dispute any of Mrs. Melmoth's
claims to superior wisdom.
The breakfast proceeded in silence,—or, at least, without
any conversation material to the tale. At its conclusion,
Mrs. Melmoth was again meditating on the propriety
of entering Ellen's chamber; but she was now
prevented by an incident, that always excited much interest
both in herself and her husband.
This was the entrance of the servant, bearing the letters
and newspaper, with which, once a fortnight, the
mail-carrier journeyed up the valley. Doctor Melmoth's
situation, at the head of a respectable seminary, and his
character, as a scholar, had procured him an extensive
correspondence among the learned men of his own country;
and he had even exchanged epistles with one or
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
two of the most distinguished dissenting clergymen of
Great Britain. But, unless when some fond mother enclosed
a one pound note, to defray the private expenses
of her son at College—it was frequently the case, that
the packets addressed to the doctor, were the sole contents
of the mail bag. In the present instance, his letters
were very numerous, and, to judge from the one he
chanced first to open, of an unconscienable length. While
he was engaged in their perusal, Mrs. Melmoth amused
herself with the newspaper,—a little sheet of about twelve
inches square, which had but one rival in the country.—
Commencing with the title, she labored on, through advertisements,
old and new, through poetry, lamentably
deficient in rhythm and rhymes—through essays, the ideas
of which had been trite since the first week of the creation;—
till she finally arrived at the department that, a
fortnight before, had contained the latest news from all
quarters. Making such remarks upon these items as to
her seemed good, the dame's notice was at length attracted
by an article, which her sudden exclamation proved
to possess uncommon interest. Casting her eye hastily
over it, she immediately began to read aloud to her husband;
but he, deeply engaged in a long and learned letter,
instead of listening to what she wished to communicate,
exerted his own lungs in opposition to hers,—as
is the custom of abstracted men, when disturbed. The
result was as follows.
`A brig just arrived in the outer harbor,' began Mrs.
Melmoth, `reports, that on the morning of the 25th ult.'—
here the doctor broke in, `wherefore I am compelled
to differ from your exposition of the said passage, for
those reasons, of the which I have given you a taste;
provided'—the lady's voice was now most audible—`ship
bottom upward, discovered by the name on her stern to
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[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
be the Ellen of'—`and in the same opinion are Hooker,
Cotton, and divers learned divines of a later date.'
The doctor's lungs were deep and strong, and victory
seemed to incline toward him; but Mrs. Melmoth now
made use of a tone, whose peculiar shrillness, as long
experience had taught her husband, argued a mood of
mind not to be trifled with.
`On my word doctor,' she exclaimed, `this is most unfeeling
and unchristian conduct! Here am I, endeavoring
to inform you of the death of an old friend, and you
continue as deaf as a post.'
Doctor Melmoth, who had heard the sound, without receiving
the sense, of these words, now laid aside the letter
in despair, and submissively requested to be informed
of her pleasure.
`There,—read for yourself,' she replied, handing him
the paper, and pointing to the passage containing the important
intelligence. `Read, and then finish your letter,
if you have a mind.'
`He took the paper, unable to conjecture how the
dame could be so much interested in any part of its contents;
but, before he had read many words, he grew pale
as death. `Good heavens, what is this?' he exclaimed.
He then read on, `being the vessel wherein that eminent
son of New-England, John Langton, Esquire, had
taken passage for his native country, after an absence of
many years.'
`Our poor Ellen, his orphan child!' said doctor Melmoth,
dropping the paper. `How shall we break the intelligence
to her? Alas! her share of the affliction
causes me to forget my own.'
`It is a heavy misfortune, doubtless, and Ellen will
grieve as a daughter should,' replied Mrs. Melmoth,
speaking with the good sense of which she had a
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
competent share. `But she has never known her father, and
her sorrow must arise from a sense of duty, more than
from strong affection. I will go and inform her of her
loss. It is late, and I wonder if she be still asleep?'
`Be cautious, dearest wife,' said the doctor—`Ellen
has strong feelings, and a sudden shock might be dangerous.
'
`I think I may be trusted, doctor Melmoth,' replied
the lady, who had a high opinion of her own abilities as
a comforter, and was not averse to exercise them.
Her husband, after her departure, sat listlessly turning
over the letters, that yet remained unopened, feeling little
curiosity, after such melancholy intelligence, respecting
their contents. But by the hand writing of the direction
on one of them, his attention was gradually arrested,
till he found himself gazing earnestly on those
strong, firm, regular characters. They were perfectly
familiar to his eye; but from what hand they came, he
could not conjecture. Suddenly, however, the truth
burst upon him; and, after noticing the date, and reading
a few lines, he rushed hastily in pursuit of his wife.
He had arrived at the top of his speed, and at the middle
of the stair-case, when his course was arrested by the
lady whom he sought, who came, with a velocity equal to
his own, in an opposite direction. The consequence was,
a concussion between the two meeting masses, by which
Mrs. Melmoth was seated securely on the stairs, while
the doctor was only preserved from precipitation to the
bottom, by clinging desperately to the balustrade. As
soon as the pair discovered that they had sustained no
material injury by their contact, they began eagerly to
explain the cause of their mutual haste, without those
reproaches, which, on the lady's part, would, at another
time, have followed such an accident.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
`You have not told her the bad news, I trust?' cried
doctor Melmoth, after each had communicated his and
her intelligence, without obtaining audience of the other.
`Would you have me tell it to the bare walls?' inquired
the lady, in her shrillest tone. `Have I not just
informed you that she has gone, fled, eloped? Her
chamber is empty, and her bed has not been occupied.'
`Gone!' repeated the doctor—`and when her father
comes to demand his daughter of me, what answer shall
I make?'
`Now, heaven defend us from the visits of the dead
and drowned!' cried Mrs. Melmoth. `This is a serious
affair, doctor; but not, I trust, sufficient to raise a
ghost.'
`Mr. Langton is yet no ghost,' answered he; `though
this event will go near to make him one. He was fortunately
prevented, after he had made every preparation,
from taking passage in the vessel that was lost.'
`And where is he now,' she inquired.
`He is in New England. Perhaps he is at this moment,
on his way to us,' replied her husband. `His letter
is dated nearly a fortnight back, and he expresses an intention
of being with us in a few days.'
`Well, I thank heaven for his safety,' said Mrs. Melmoth;
`but truly, the poor gentleman could not have
chosen a better time to be drowned, nor a worse one to
come to life, than this. What we shall do, doctor, I
know not; but, had you locked the doors, and fastened
the windows, as I advised, the misfortune could not have
happened.'
`Why, the whole country would have flouted us,' answered
the doctor. `Is there a door in all the province,
that is barred or bolted, night or day? Nevertheless,
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
it might have been advisable last night, had it occurred
to me.'
`And why at that time, more than at all times?' she inquired.
`We had surely no reason to fear this event.'
Doctor Melmoth was silent; for his worldly wisdom
was sufficient to deter him from giving his lady the opportunity,
which she would not fail to use to the utmost, of laying
the blame of the elopement at his door. He now proceeded,
with a heavy heart, to Ellen's chamber, to satisfy
himself with his own eyes, of the state of affairs. It
was deserted, too truly; and the wild flowers with which
it was the maiden's custom, daily, to decorate her premises,
were drooping, as if in sorrow, for her who had
placed them there. Mrs. Melmoth, on this second visit,
discovered on the table a note, addressed to her husband,
and containing a few words of gratitude from Ellen,
but no explanation of her mysterious flight. The
doctor gazed long on the tiny letters, which had evidently
been traced with a trembling hand, and blotted with
many tears.
`There is a mystery in this—a mystery that I cannot
fathom,' he said. `And now, I would I knew what
measures it would be proper to take.'
`Get you on horseback, doctor Melmoth, and proceed
as speedily as may be, down the valley to the town,' said
the dame, the influence of whose firmer mind was sometimes,
as in the present case, most beneficially exerted
over his own. `You must not spare for trouble—no, nor
for danger—now, oh! if I were a man—'
`Oh that you were,' murmured the doctor, in a perfectly
inaudible voice. `Well, and when I reach the town,
what then?'
`As I am a christian woman, my patience cannot endure
you,' exclaimed Mrs. Melmoth—`oh, I love to see
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
a man with the spirit of a man; but you—' and she
turned away in utter scorn.
`But, dearest wife,' remonstrated the husband, who
was really at a loss how to proceed, and anxious for her
advice, `your worldly experience is greater than mine,
and I desire to profit by it. What should be my next
measure, after arriving at the town?”
Mrs. Melmoth was appeased by the submission with
which the doctor asked her counsel; though, if the
truth must be told, she heartily despised him for needing
it. She condescended, however, to instruct him in the
proper method of pursuing the runaway maiden, and directed
him, before his departure, to put strict inquiries to
Hugh Crombie, respecting any stranger who might lately
have visited his inn. That there would be wisdom in
this, doctor Melmoth had his own reasons for believing;
and, still without imparting them to his lady, he proceeded
to do as he had been bid.
The veracious landlord acknowledged that a stranger
had spent a night and day at his inn, and was missing
that morning; but he utterly denied all acquaintance
with his character, or privity to his purposes. Had
Mrs. Melmoth, instead of her husband, conducted the examination,
the result might have been different. As the
case was, the doctor returned to his dwelling but little
wiser than he went forth; and, ordering his steed to be
saddled, he began a journey, of which he knew not what
would be the end.
In the meantime, the intelligence of Ellen's disappearance
circulated rapidly, and soon sent forth hunters more
fit to follow the chase than doctor Melmoth.
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CHAPTER VII.
“There was racing and chacing o'er Cannobie Lee.”
Walter Scott.
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
When Edward Walcott awoke, the next morning,
from his deep slumber, his first consciousness was, of
a heavy weight upon his mind, the cause of which, he
was unable, immediately, to recollect. One by one, however,
by means of the association of ideas, the events
of the preceding night came back to his memory;
though those of latest occurrence were dim as dreams.
But one circumstance was only too well remembered—
the discovery of Ellen Langton. By a strong effort, he
next attained to an uncertain recollection, of a scene of
madness and violence, followed, as he at first thought,
by a duel. A little farther reflection, however, informed
him that this event was yet among the things of futurity;
but he could by no means recall the appointed
time or place. As he had not the slightest intention
(praiseworthy and prudent as it would unquestionably
have been) to give up the chance of avenging Ellen's
wrongs, and his own. He immediately arose and began
to dress, meaning to learn from Hugh Crombie those
particulars which his own memory had not retained.
His chief apprehension was, that the appointed time
had already elapsed; for the early sun-beams of a glorious
morning were now peeping into his chamber.
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More than once, during the progress of dressing, he
was inclined to believe, that the duel had actually taken
place, and been fatal to him, and that he was now in
those regions, to which, his conscience told him, such
an event would be likely to send him. This idea resulted
from his bodily sensations, which were in the
highest degree uncomfortable. He was tormented by
a raging thirst, that seemed to have absorbed all the
moisture of his throat and stomach; and in his present
agitation, a cup of icy water would have been his first
wish, had all the treasures of earth and sea been at his
command. His head, too, throbbed almost to bursting,
and the whirl of his brain, at every movement, promised
little accuracy in the aim of his pistol when he should
meet the angler. These feelings, together with the deep
degradation of his mind, made him resolve that no circumstances
should again, draw him into an excess of
wine. In the meantime, his head was perhaps still too
much confused to allow him fully to realize his unpleasant
situation.
Before Edward was prepared to leave his chamber,
the door was opened by one of the College bed-makers,
who, perceiving that he was nearly dressed, entered
and began to set the apartment in order. There were
two of these officials pertaining to Harley College; each
of them being, and for obvious reasons this was an indispensable
qualification, a model of perfect ugliness in
her own way. One was a tall, raw-boned, huge-jointed,
double-fisted giantess, admirably fitted to sustain the
part of Gleardallen, in the tragedy of Tom Thumb. Her
features were as excellent as her form, appearing to
have been rough hewn with a broad axe, and left unpolished.
The other was a short, squat figure, about
two thirds the height and three times the circumference
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
of ordinary females. Her hair was gray, her complexion
of a deep yellow, and her most remarkable feature
was a short snub nose, just discernible amid the
broad immensity of her face. This latter lady was she
who now entered Edward's chamber. Notwithstanding
her deficiency in personal attractions, she was rather a
favorite of the students, being good natured, anxious
for their comfort, and, when duly encouraged, very
communicative. Edward perceived, as soon as she appeared,
that she only waited his assistance in order to
disburden herself of some extraordinary information;
and more from compassion than curiosity, he began to
question her.
`Well, Dolly, what news this morning?'
`Why, let me see,—oh, yes. It had almost slipped
my memory,' replied the bed-maker. `Poor widow
Butler died last night, after her long sickness. Poor
woman! I remember her forty years ago, or so, as rosy
a lass as you could set eyes on.'
`Ah! Has she gone?' said Edward, recollecting the
sick woman of the cottage, which he had entered with
Ellen and Fanshawe. `Was she not out of her right
mind, Dolly?'
`Yes; this seven years,' she answered. `They say
she came to her senses, a bit, when Doctor Melmoth
visited her yesterday, but was raving mad when she
died. Ah! That son of hers, if he is yet alive.—Well
Well.'
`She had a son, then?' inquired Edward.
`Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve me from
such a one,' said Dolly. `It was thought he went off
with Hugh Crombie, that keeps the tavern now. That
was fifteen years ago.'
`And have they heard nothing of him since?' asked
Edward.'
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
`Nothing good, nothing good,' said the bed-maker.
`Stories did travel up the valley, now and then; but for
five years there has been no word of him. They say
Merchant Langton, Ellen's father, met him in foreign
parts and would have made a man of him; but there
was too much of the wicked one in him for that. Well,
poor woman! I wonder who'll preach her funeral sermon.
'
`Doctor Melmoth, probably,' observed the student.
`No, no; the Doctor will never finish his journey in
time. And who knows but his own funeral will be the
end of it,' said Dolly with a sagacious shake of her head.
`Doctor Melmoth gone a journey!' repeated Edward,
`What do you mean? For what purpose?'
`For a good purpose enough, I may say,' replied she.
`To search out Miss Ellen, that was run away with, last
night.'
`In the devil's name, woman, of what are you speaking?
' shouted Edward, seizing the affrighted bed-maker
forcibly by the arm.
Poor Dolly had chosen this circuitous method of communicating
her intelligence, because she was well aware,
that, if she first told of Ellen's flight, she should find no
ear for her account of the widow Butler's death. She
had not calculated, however, that the news would produce
so violent an effect upon her auditor; and her
voice faltered as she recounted what she knew of the
affair. She had hardly concluded, before Edward, who
as she proceeded, had been making hasty preparations,
rushed from his chamber, and took the way towards
Hugh Crombie's Inn. He had no difficulty in finding
the Landlord; who had already occupied his accustomed
seat, and was smoking his accustomed pipe, under
the elm tree.
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
`Well, Master Walcott, you have come to take a
stomach reliever, this morning, I suppose,' said Hugh,
taking the pipe from his mouth. `What shall it be? a
bumper of wine with an egg?—or a glass of smooth,
old, oily brandy, such as dame Crombie and I keep for
our own drinking? Come, that will do it, I know.'
`No, no;—neither;' replied Edward, shuddering, involuntarily,
at the bare mention of wine and strong
drink. `You know well, Hugh Crombie, the errand
on which I come.'
`Well, perhaps I do,' said the landlord. You come to
order me to saddle my best horse. You are for a ride,
this fine morning.'
`True, and I must learn of you in what direction to
turn my horse's head,' replied Edward Walcott.
`I understand you,' said Hugh, nodding and smiling.
`And now, Master Edward, I really have taken a strong
liking to you; and if you please to hearken to it, you
shall have some of my best advice.'
`Speak,' said the young man, expecting to be told
in what direction to pursue the chase.
`I advise you, then,' continued Hugh Crombie, in a
tone, in which some real feeling mingled with assumed
carelessness,—`I advise you to forget that you have ever
known this girl,—that she has ever existed; for she is
as much lost to you, as if she never had been born, or
as if the grave had covered her. Come, come, man;—
toss off a quart of my old wine, and keep up a merry
heart. This has been my way, in many a heavier sorrow
than ever you have felt; and you see I am alive
and merry yet.' But Hugh's merriment had failed him
just as he was making his boast of it; for Edward saw
a tear in the corner of his eye.
`Forget her? Never, never!' said the student,
while his heart sank within him, at the hopelessness of
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
pursuit, which Hugh's words implied. `I will follow
her to the ends of the earth.'
`Then so much the worse for you, and for my poor
nag,—on whose back you shall be in three minutes,'
rejoined the landlord. `I have spoken to you as I
would to my own son, if I had such an incumbrance.
Here you ragamuffin, saddle the gray and lead him
round to the door.'
`The gray? I will ride the black,' said Edward, `I
know your best horse, as well as you do yourself, Hugh.'
There is no black horse in my stable, I have parted
with him to an old comrade of mine,' answered the landlord,
with a wink of acknowledgment to what he saw
were Edward's suspicions. `The gray is a stout nag,
and will carry you a round pace, though not so fast as
to bring you up with them you seek. I reserved him
for you, and put Mr. Fanshawe off with the old white,
on which I travelled hitherward, a year or two since.'
`Fanshawe? Has he then the start of me?' asked
Edward.
`He rode off about twenty minutes ago,' replied
Hugh; but you will overtake him within ten miles, at
farthest. But if mortal man could recover the girl, that
fellow would do it,—even if he had no better nag than
a broomstick, like the witches of old times.'
`Did he obtain any information from you as to the
course?' inquired the student.
`I could give him only this much,' said Hugh, pointing
down the road, in the direction of the town. My
old comrade, trust no man farther than is needful, and
I ask no unnecessary questions.
The ostler now led up to the door the horse which
Edward was to ride. The young man mounted with
all expedition; but as he was about to apply the spurs,
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
his thirst, which the bed-maker's intelligence had caused
him to forget, returned most powerfully upon him.
`For Heaven's sake, Hugh, a mug of your sharpest
cider,—and let it be a large one,' he exclaimed. `My
tongue rattles in my mouth like,—
`Like the bones in a dice-box,' said the landlord,
finishing the comparison and hastening to obey Edward's
directions. Indeed, he rather exceeded them, by mingling
with the juice of the apple, a jill of his old brandy,
which, his own experience told him, would at that time
have a most desirable effect upon the young man's internal
system.
`It is powerful stuff, mine host, and I feel like a new
man already,' observed Edward, after draining the mug
to the bottom.
`He is a fine lad, and sits his horse most gallantly,'
said Hugh Crombie to himself, as the student rode off,
`I heartily wish him success. I wish to Heaven my
conscience had suffered me to betray the plot before it
was too late. Well, well,—a man must keep his mite of
honesty.'
The morning was now one of the most bright and glorious,
that ever shone for mortals; and, under other circumstances,
Edward's bosom would have been as light,
and his spirit would have sung as cheerfully, as one of
the many birds that warbled around him. The rain-drops
of the preceding night hung like glittering diamonds on
every leaf of every tree, shaken and rendered more brilliant
by occasional sighs of wind, that removed from the
traveller the superfluous heat of an unclouded sun. In
spite of the adventure, so mysterious and vexatious,
in which he was engaged, Edward's elastic spirit
(assisted perhaps by the brandy he had unwittingly
swallowed) rose higher as he rode on, and he soon
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[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
found himself endeavoring to accommodate the tune
of one of Hugh Crombie's ballads to the motion
of the horse. Nor did this reviving cheerfulness argue
anything against his unwavering faith, and pure and fervent
love for Ellen Langton. A sorrowful and repining
disposition is not the necessary accompaniment of a
`leal and loving heart;' and Edward's spirits were cheered,
not by forgetfulness, but by hope, which would not
permit him to doubt of the ultimate success of his pursuit.
The uncertainty itself, and the probable danger of the
expedition, were not without their charm to a youthful
and adventurous spirit. In fact, Edward would not have
been altogether satisfied to recover the errant damsel,
without first doing battle in her behalf.
He had proceeded but a few miles, before he came in
sight of Fanshawe, who had been accommodated by the
landlord with a horse much inferior to his own. The
speed to which he had been put, had almost exhausted
the poor animal, whose best pace was now but little beyond
a walk. Edward drew his bridle, as he came up
with Fanshawe.
`I have been anxious to apologize,' he said to him,
`for the hasty and unjust expressions of which I made
use, last evening. May I hope, that, in consideration of
my mental distraction, and the causes of it, you will forget
what has past?'
`I had already forgotten it,' replied Fanshawe, freely
offering his hand. `I saw your disturbed state of feeling,
and it would have been unjust, both to you and to
myself, to remember the errors it occasioned.'
`A wild expedition this,' observed Edward, after
shaking warmly the offered hand. `Unless we obtain
some farther information at the town, we shall hardly
know which way to continue the pursuit.'
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`We can scarcely fail, I think, of lighting upon some
trace of them,' said Fanshawe. `Their flight must have
commenced after the storm subsided, which would
give them but a few hours the start of us. May I beg,'
he continued, noticing the superior condition of his rival's
horse, `that you will not attempt to accommodate your
pace to mine?'
Edward bowed and rode on, wondering at the change
which a few months had wrought in Fanshawe's character.
On this occasion, especially, the energy of his
mind had communicated itself to his frame. The color
was strong and high in his cheek, and his whole appearance
was that of a gallant and manly youth, whom a
lady might love, or a fool might fear. Edward had not
been so slow as his mistress in discovering the student's
affection, and he could not but acknowledge in his heart
that he was a rival not to be despised, and might yet be
a successful one, if by his means Ellen Langton were
restored to her friends. This consideration caused him
to spur forward with increased ardour; but all his speed
could not divest him of the idea, that Fanshawe would
finally overtake him, and attain the object of their mutual
pursuit. There was certainly no apparent ground for
this imagination; for every step of his horse increased
the advantage which Edward had gained, and he soon
lost sight of his rival.
Shortly after overtaking Fanshawe, the young man
passed the lonely cottage, formerly the residence of the
Widow Butler, who now lay dead within. He was at
first inclined to alight and make inquiries respecting the
fugitives; for he observed, through the windows, the
faces of several persons, whom curiosity or some better
feeling had led to the house of mourning. Recollecting,
however, that this portion of the road must have been
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
passed by the angler and Ellen at too early an hour to
attract notice, he forbore to waste time by a fruitless
delay.
Edward proceeded on his journey, meeting with no
other noticeable event, till, arriving at the summit of a
hill, he beheld, a few hundred yards before him, the Rev.
Doctor Melmoth. The worthy President was toiling onward,
at a rate unexampled in the history either of himself
or his steed, the excellence of the latter consisting
in sure-footedness, rather than rapidity. The rider looked
round, seemingly in some apprehension, at the sound
of hoof-tramps behind him, but was unable to conceal
his satisfaction on recognising Edward Walcott.
In the whole course of his life, Doctor Melmoth had
never been placed in circumstances so embarrassing as
the present. He was altogether a child in the ways of
the world, having spent his youth and early manhood in
abstracted study, and his maturity in the solitude of these
hills. The expedition, therefore, on which fate had now
thrust him, was an entire deviation from the quiet pathway
of all his former years, and he felt like one who sets
forth over the broad ocean, without chart or compass.
The affair would undoubtedly have been perplexing to a
man of far more experience than he; but the Doctor
pictured to himself a thousand difficulties and dangers,
which, except in his imagination, had no existence. The
perturbation of his spirit had compelled him, more than
once since his departure, to regret that he had not invited
Mrs. Melmoth to a share in the adventure; this being
an occasion where her firmness, decision, and confident
sagacity—which made her a sort of domestic hedgehog—
would have been peculiarly appropriate. In the
absence of such a counsellor, even Edward Walcott—
young as he was, and indiscreet as the Doctor thought
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
him—was a substitute not to be despised; and it was
singular and rather ludicrous to observe how the greyhaired
man unconsciously became as a child to the
beardless youth. He addressed Edward with an assumption
of dignity, through which his pleasure at the
meeting was very obvious.
`Young gentleman, this is not well,' he said. `By
what authority have you absented yourself from the walls
of Alma Mater, during term-time?'
`I conceived that it was unnecessary to ask leave, at
such a conjuncture, and when the head of the institution
was himself in the saddle,' replied Edward.
`It was a fault, it was a fault,' said Doctor Melmoth,
shaking his head; `but, in consideration of the motive, I
may pass it over. And now, my dear Edward, I advise
that we continue our journey together, as your youth
and inexperience will stand in need of the wisdom of my
grey head. Nay, I pray you, lay not the lash to your
steed. You have ridden fast and far, and a slower pace
is requisite for a season.'
And, in order to keep up with his young companion,
the Doctor smote his own grey nag; which unhappy
beast, wondering what strange concatenation of events
had procured him such treatment, endeavoured to obey
his master's wishes. Edward had sufficient compassion
for Doctor Melmoth (especially as his own horse now
exhibited signs of weariness) to moderate his pace to
one attainable by the former.
`Alas, youth! These are strange times,' observed the
President, `when a Doctor of Divinity and an under
graduate set forth, like a knight-errant and his squire,
in search of a stray damsel. Methinks I am an epitome
of the church militant, or a new species of polemical divinity.
Pray Heaven, however, there be no encounter
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
in store for us: for I utterly forgot to provide myself
with weapons.'
`I took some thought for that matter, reverend knight,'
replied Edward, whose imagination was highly tickled
by Dr. Melmoth's chivalrous comparison.
`Ay, I see that you have girded on a sword,' said
the Divine. `But wherewith shall I defend myself?—
My hand being empty, except of this golden-headed staff,
the gift of Mr. Langton.'
`One of these, if you will accept it,' answered Edward,
exhibiting a brace of pistols, `will serve to begin
the conflict, before you join the battle hand to hand.'
`Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling with that
deadly instrument, since I know not accurately from
which end proceeds the bullet,' said Doctor Melmoth.
`But were it not better, seeing we are so well provided
with artillery, to betake ourselves, in the event of an encounter,
to some stone wall or other place of strength?'
`If I may presume to advise,' said the squire, `you,
as being most valiant and experienced, should ride forward,
lance in hand, (your long staff serving for a lance)
while I annoy the enemy from afar.'
`Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax,' interrupted
Doctor Melmoth, `or David with his stone and sling.
No, no, young man; I have left unfinished in my study
a learned treatise, important not only to the present age,
but to posterity, for whose sakes I must take heed to
my safety. But, lo! who ride yonder?' he exclaimed,
in manifest alarm, pointing to some horsemen upon the
brow of a hill, at a short distance before them.
`Fear not, gallant leader,' said Edward Walcott, who
had already discovered the objects of the Doctor's terror.
`They are men of peace, as we shall shortly see. The
foremost is somewhere near your own years, and rides like
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
a grave, substantial citizen,—though what he does here,
I know not. Behind come two servants, men likewise of
sober age and pacific appearance.'
`Truly, your eyes are better than mine own. Of a
verity, you are in the right,' acquiesced Doctor Melmoth,
recovering his usual quantum of intrepidity. `We will
ride forward courageously, as those who, in a just cause,
fear neither death nor bonds.'
The reverend knight-errant and his squire, at the
time of discovering the three horsemen, were within a
very short distance of the town, which was, however,
concealed from their view by the bill, that the strangers
were descending. The road from Harley College,
through almost its whole extent, had been rough and
wild, and the country thin of population; but now, standing
frequent amid fertile fields on each side of the way,
were neat little cottages, from which groups of whiteheaded
children rushed forth to gaze upon the travellers.
The three strangers, as well as the Doctor and Edward,
were surrounded, as they approached each other, by a
crowd of this kind, plying their little bare legs most pertinaciously,
in order to keep pace with the horses.
As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost rider,
his grave aspect and stately demeanour struck him with
involuntary respect. There were deep lines of thought
across his brow, and his calm, yet bright grey eye, betokened
a steadfast soul. There was also an air of conscious
importance, even in the manner in which the
stranger sat his horse, which a man's good opinion of
himself, unassisted by the concurrence of the world in
general, seldom bestows. The two servants rode at a
respectable distance in the rear; and the heavy portmanteaus
at their backs intimated that the party had journeyed
from afar. Doctor Melmoth endeavored to assume
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
the dignity that became him, as the head of Harley College;
and with a gentle stroke of his staff upon his
wearied steed, and a grave nod to the principal stranger,
was about to commence the ascent of the hill, at the foot
of which they were. The gentleman, however, made a
halt.
`Doctor Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet you?'
he exclaimed, in accents expressive of as much surprise
and pleasure, as were consistent with his staid demeanour.
`Have you then forgotten your old friend?'
`Mr. Langton! Can it be?' said the Doctor, after
looking him in the face a moment. `Yes, it is my old
friend, indeed! Welcome, welcome! Though you come
at an unfortunate time.'
`What say you? How is my child? Ellen, I trust, is
well?' cried Mr. Langton; a father's anxiety overcoming
the coldness and reserve that were natural to him, or
that long habit had made a second nature.
`She is well in health. She was so, at least, last
night,' replied Doctor Melmoth, unable to meet the eye
of his friend. `But,—but I have been a careless shepherd,
and the lamb has strayed from the fold while I
slept.'
Edward Walcott, who was a deeply interested observer
of this scene, had anticipated that a burst of passionate
grief would follow the disclosure. He was, however,
altogether mistaken. There was a momentary convulsion
of Mr. Langton's strong features, as quick to come
and go as a flash of lightning; and then his countenance
was as composed—though perhaps a little sterner—as
before. He seemed about to inquire into the particulars
of what so nearly concerned him; but changed his purpose
on observing the crowd of children, who, with one
or two of their parents, were endeavouring to catch the
words that passed between the Doctor and himself.
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
`I will turn back with you to the village,' he said, in
a steady voice; `and, at your leisure, I shall desire to
hear the particulars of this unfortunate affair.'
He wheeled his horse accordingly, and, side by side
with Doctor Melmoth, began to ascend the hill. On
reaching the summit, the little country town lay before
them, presenting a cheerful and busy spectacle. It consisted
of one long, regular street, extending parallel to,
and at a short distance from the river; which here, enlarged
by a junction with another stream, became navigable,
not indeed for vessels of burthen, but for rafts of
lumber and boats of considerable size. The houses,
with peaked roofs and pitting stories, stood at wide intervals
along the street; and the commercial character
of the place was manifested by the shop door and windows,
that occupied the front of almost every dwelling.
One or two mansions, however, surrounded by trees and
standing back at a haughty distance from the road, were
evidently the abodes of the aristocracy of the village.
It was not difficult to distinguish the owners of these,—
self-important personages, with canes and well-powdered
periwigs,—among the crowd of meaner men, who bestowed
their attention upon Doctor Melmoth and his
friend, as they rode by. The town being the nearest
mart of a large extent of back country, there were many
rough farmers and woodsmen, to whom the cavalcade
was an object of curiosity and admiration. The former
feeling, indeed, was general throughout the village.
The shop-keepers left their customers and looked forth
from the doors,—the female portion of the community
thrust their heads from the windows,—and the people in
the street formed a lane, through which, with all eyes
concentrated upon them, the party rode onward to the
tavern. The general aptitude that pervades the
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
populace of a small country town, to meddle with affairs not
legitimately concerning them, was increased on this occasion
by the sudden return of Mr. Langton, after passing
through the village. Many conjectures were afloat
respecting the cause of this retrograde movement; and,
by degrees, something like the truth, though much distorted,
spread generally among the crowd,—communicated,
probably, from Mr. Langton's servants. Edward
Walcott, incensed at the uncourteous curiosity of which
he, as well as his companions, was the object, felt a frequent
impulse, (though fortunately for himself, resisted,)
to make use of his riding switch in clearing a passage.
On arriving at the tavern, doctor Melmoth recounted
to his friend the little he knew beyond the bare fact of
Ellen's disappearance. Had Edward Walcott been called
to their conference, he might, by disclosing the adventure
of the angler, have thrown a portion of light upon
the affair; but, since his first introduction, the cold
and stately merchant had honoured him with no sort of
notice.
Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at the sudden
appearance of Ellen's father, and was little inclined
to co-operate in any measures that he might adopt for
her recovery. It was his wish to pursue the chase on
his own responsibility, and as his own wisdom dictated;
he chose to be an independent ally, rather than a subordinate
assistant. But, as a step preliminary to his proceedings
of every other kind, he found it absolutely necessary,
having journeyed far and fasting, to call upon the
landlord for a supply of food. The viands that were set
before him, were homely, but abundant; nor were Edward's
griefs and perplexities so absorbing, as to overcome
the appetite of youth and health.
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
Doctor Melmoth, and Mr. Langton, after a short private
conversation, had summoned the landlord, in the
hope of obtaining some clue to the developement of the
mystery. But no young lady, nor any stranger answering
to the description the doctor had received from Hugh
Crombie (which was indeed a false one) had been seen
to pass through the village since day-break. Here,
therefore, the friends were entirely at a loss in what direction
to continue the pursuit. The village was the
focus of several roads, diverging to widely distant portions
of the country; and which of these the fugitives
had taken, it was impossible to determine. One point,
however, might be considered certain,—that the village
was the first stage of their flight; for it commanded the
only outlet from the valley, except a rugged path among
the hills, utterly impassable by horse. In this dilemma,
expresses were sent by each of the different roads; and
poor Ellen's imprudence, the tale no wise decreasing as
it rolled along, became known to a wide extent of country.
Having thus done every thing in his power to recover
his daughter, the merchant exhibited a composure which
doctor Melmoth admired, but could not equal. His own
mind, however, was in a far more comfortable state,
than when the responsibility of the pursuit had rested
upon himself.
Edward Walcott, in the meantime, had employed but
a very few moments in satisfying his hunger; after
which his active intellect alternately formed and relinquished
a thousand plans for the recovery of Ellen.—
Fanshawe's observation, that her flight must have commenced
after the subsiding of the storm, recurred to him.
On inquiry, he was informed that the violence of the
rain had continued, with a few momentary intermissions,
till near day light. The fugitives must, therefore, have
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
passed through the village, long after its inhabitants
were abroad; and how, without the gift of invisibility,
they had contrived to elude notice, Edward could not
conceive.
`Fifty years ago,' thought Edward, `my sweet Ellen
would have been deemed a witch, for this trackless journey.
Truly, I could wish I were a wizard, that I might
bestride a broom-stick, and follow her.'
While the young man, involved in these perplexing
thoughts, looked forth from the open window of the
apartment, his attention was drawn to an individual, evidently
of a different, though not of a higher class, than
the countrymen among whom he stood. Edward now
recollected that he had noticed his rough, dark face,
among the most earnest of those who had watched the
arrival of the party. He had then taken him for one of the
boatmen, of whom there were many in the village, and
who had much of a sailor-like dress and appearance. A
second, and more attentive observation, however, convinced
Edward that this man's life had not been spent
upon fresh water; and had any stronger evidence, than
the nameless marks which the ocean impresses upon its
sons, been necessary, it would have been found in his
mode of locomotion. While Edward was observing him,
he beat slowly up to one of Mr. Langton's servants, who
was standing near the door of the inn. He seemed
to question the man with affected carelessness; but
his countenance was dark and perplexed, when he
turned to mingle again with the crowd. Edward lost no
time in ascertaining from the servant the nature of his
inquiries. They had related to the elopement of Mr.
Langton's daughter; which was, indeed, the prevailing,
if not the sole subject of conversation in the village.
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
The grounds for supposing that this man was in any
way connected with the angler, were, perhaps, very
slight; yet, in the perplexity of the whole affair, they
induced Edward to resolve to get at the heart of his
mystery. To attain this end, he took the most direct
method,—by applying to the man himself.
He had now retired apart from the throng and bustle of
the village, and was seated upon a condemned boat that
was drawn up to rot upon the banks of the river. His
arms were folded, and his hat drawn over his brows.
The lower part of his face, which alone was visible,
evinced gloom and depression, as did also the deep sighs,
which, because he thought no one was near him, he did
not attempt to restrain.
`Friend, I must speak with you,' said Edward Walcott,
laying his hand upon his shoulder, after contemplating
the man a moment, himself unseen.
He started at once from his abstraction and his seat,
apparently expecting violence, and prepared to resist it;
but perceiving the youthful and solitary intruder upon
his privacy, he composed his features with much quickness.
`What would you with me?' he asked.
`They tarry long,—or you have kept a careless
watch,' said Edward, speaking at a venture.
For a moment there seemed a probability of obtaining
such a reply to this observation, as the youth had intended
to elicit. If any trust could be put in the language of
the stranger's countenance, a set of words, different from
those to which he subsequently gave utterance, had
risen to his lips. But he seemed naturally slow of
speech; and this defect was now, as is frequently the
case, advantageous, in giving him space for reflection.
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
`Look you, youngster;—crack no jokes on me,' he
at length said, contemptuously. `Away!—back whence
you came, or—' and he slightly waved a small rattan,
that he held in his right hand.
Edward's eyes sparkled, and his color rose. `You
must change this tone, fellow, and that speedily,' he observed.
`I order you to lower your hand, and answer
the questions that I shall put to you.'
The man gazed dubiously at him; but finally adopted
a more conciliatory mode of speech
`Well, master, and what is your business with me?' he
inquired. `I am a boatman out of employ. Any commands
in my line?'
`Pshaw! I know you, my good friend, and you cannot
deceive me,' replied Edward Walcott. `We are
private here,' he continued, looking around. `I have
no desire or intention to do you harm; and, if you act
according to my directions, you shall have no cause to
repent it.'
`And what if I refuse to put myself under your orders?'
inquired the man. `You are but a young captain, for
such an old hulk as mine.'
`The ill consequences of a refusal would all be on
your own side,' replied Edward. `I shall, in that case,
deliver you up to justice; if I have not the means of capturing
you myself,' he continued, observing the seaman's
eye to wander rather scornfully over his youthful
and slender figure, `there are hundreds within call
whom it will be in vain to resist. Besides, it requires
little strength to use this,' he added, laying his hand on
a pistol.
`If that were all, I could suit you there, my lad,' muttered
the stranger. He continued aloud, `well, what is
your will with me? D—d ungenteel treatment, this!—
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
But put your questions; and to oblige you, I may answer
them;—if so be that I know any thing of the matter.
'
`You will do wisely,' observed the young man. `And
now to business. What reason have you to suppose
that the persons for whom you watch are not already beyond
the village?'
The seaman paused long before he answered, and
gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently endeavoring to
ascertain from his countenance, the amount of his knowledge.
This he probably overrated, but, nevertheless,
hazarded a falsehood.
`I doubt not they passed before midnight,' he said.
`I warrant you they are many a league towards the seacoast,
ere this.'
`You have kept watch, then, since midnight?' asked
Edward.
`Ay, that have I. And a dark and rough one it was,'
answered the stranger.
`And you are certain that if they passed at all, it must
have been before that hour?'
`I kept my walk across the road, till the village was
all astir,' said the seaman. `They could not have missed
me. So, you see, your best way is to give chase; for
they have a long start of you, and you have no time to
lose.'
`Your information is sufficient, my good friend,' said
Edward, with a smile. `I have reason to know that
they did not commence their flight before midnight.
You have made it evident that they have not passed
since. Ergo, they have not passed at all. An indisputable
syllogism. And now will I retrace my footsteps.
'
-- 103 --
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`Stay, young man,' said the stranger, placing himself
full in Edward's way, as he was about to hasten to the
inn—` you have drawn me in to betray my comrade; but
before you leave this place, you must answer a question
or two of mine. Do you mean to take the law with you?—
or will you right your wrongs, if you have any, with
your own right hand?'
`It is my intention to take the latter method. But if
I choose the former, what then?' demanded Edward.
`Nay, nothing;—only, you or I might not have gone
hence alive,' replied the stranger. `But as you say he
shall have fair play—'
`On my word, friend,' interrupted the young man. `I
fear your intelligence has come too late to do either good
or harm. Look towards the inn; my companions are
getting to horse, and my life on it, they know whither to
ride.'
So saying, he hastened away, followed by the stranger.
It was indeed evident that news, of some kind or other, had
reached the village. The people were gathered in
groups, conversing eagerly; and the pale cheeks, uplifted
eye-brows, and outspread hands of some of the female
sex, filled Edward's mind with undefined, but intolerable
apprehensions. He forced his way to doctor
Melmoth, who had just mounted, and seizing his bridle,
peremptorily demanded if he knew aught of Ellen Langton.
-- 104 --
CHAPTER VIII.
“Full many a miserable year hath past—
She knows him as one dead,—or worse than dead;
And many a change her varied life hath known,
But her heart none.”
Maturin.
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
Since her interview with the angler, which was interrupted
by the appearance of Fanshawe, Ellen Langton's
hitherto calm and peaceful mind, had been in a
state of insufferable doubt and dismay. She was imperatively
called upon—at least, she so conceived, to break
through the rules which nature and education impose upon
her sex, to quit the protection of those whose desire
for her welfare was true and strong,—and to trust herself,
for what purpose she scarcely knew, to a stranger,
from whom the instinctive purity of her mind would involuntarily
have shrunk, under whatever circumstances
she had met him. The letter which she had received
from the hands of the angler, had seemed to her inexperience,
to prove beyond a doubt, that the bearer was the
friend of her father, and authorized by him, if her duty
and affection were stronger than her fears, to guide her
to his retreat. The letter spoke vaguely of losses and
misfortunes, and of a necessity for concealment on her
father's part, and secrecy on her's; and to the credit of
Ellen's not very romantic understanding, it must be
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
acknowledged, that the mystery of the plot had nearly prevented
its success. She did not, indeed, doubt that the
letter was from her father's hand; for every line and
stroke, and even many of its phrases, were familiar to
her. Her apprehension was, that his misfortunes, of
what nature soever they were, had affected his intellect,
and that, under such an influence, he had commanded
her to take a step, which nothing less than such a command
could justify. Ellen did not, however, remain
long in this opinion; for when she re-perused the letter,
and considered the firm, regular characters, and the
style—calm and cold, even in requesting such a sacrifice—
she felt that there was nothing like insanity here.
In fine, she came gradually to the belief, that there
were strong reasons, though incomprehensible by her,
for the secrecy that her father had enjoined.
Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay
plain before her. Her affection for Mr. Langton was
not, indeed—nor was it possible—so strong, as that she
would have felt for a parent who had watched over her
from her infancy. Neither was the conception, she had
unavoidably formed of his character, such as to promise,
that in him she would find an equivalent for all she
must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle nature and
loving heart, which otherwise would have rejoiced in a
new object of affection, now shrank with something like
dread from the idea of meeting her father,—stately, cold,
and stern, as she could not but imagine him. A sense
of duty was, therefore, Ellen's only support, in resolving
to tread the dark path that lay before her.
Had there been any person of her own sex, in whom
Ellen felt confidence, there is little doubt that she would
so far have disobeyed her father's letter, as to communicate
its contents, and take counsel as to her proceedings.
-- 106 --
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But Mrs. Melmoth was the only female—excepting, indeed,
the maid servant—to whom it was possible to
make the communication; and though Ellen at first
thought of such a step, her timidity and her knowledge
of the lady's character, did not permit her to venture upon
it. She next reviewed her acquaintances of the other
sex; and doctor Melmoth first presented himself, as,
in every respect but one, an unexceptionable confidant.
But the single exception was equivalent to many. The
maiden, with the highest opinion of the doctor's learning
and talents, had sufficient penetration to know, that in
the ways of the world, she was herself the better skilled
of the two. For a moment she thought of Edward Walcott;
but he was light and wild, and—which her delicacy
made an insurmountable objection—there was an untold
love between them. Her thoughts finally centered on
Fanshawe. In his judgment, young and inexperienced
though he was, she would have placed a firm trust, and
his zeal, from whatever cause it arose, she could not
doubt.
If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, an opportunity
had occurred for consulting him, she would, in
all probability, have taken advantage of it. But the
terms on which they had parted, the preceding evening,
had afforded him no reason to hope for her confidence;
and he felt that there were others who had a better right
to it than himself. He did not, therefore, throw himself in
her way, and poor Ellen was consequently left without
an adviser.
The determination that resulted from her own unassisted
wisdom, has been seen. When discovered by doctor
Melmoth at Hugh Crombie's inn, she was wholly
prepared for flight, and but for the intervention of the
storm, would, ere then, have been far away.
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The firmness of resolve, that had impelled a timid
maiden upon such a step, was not likely to be broken by
one defeat; and Ellen, accordingly, confident that the
stranger would make a second attempt, determined that
no effort on her part should be wanting to its success.
On reaching her chamber, therefore, instead of retiring
to rest (of which, from her sleepless thoughts of the preceding
night, she stood greatly in need,) she sat watching
for the abatement of the storm. Her meditations
were now calmer, than at any time since her first meeting
with the angler. She felt as if her fate was decided.
The stain had fallen upon her reputation,—she was no
longer the same pure being, in the opinion of those
whose approbation she most valued.
One obstacle to her flight—and, to a woman's mind, a
most powerful one—had thus been removed. Dark and
intricate as was the way, it was easier, now, to proceed,
than to pause; and her desperate and forlorn situation
gave her a strength, which, hitherto, she had not
felt.
At every cessation in the torrent of rain that beat
against the house, Ellen flew to the window, expecting
to see the stranger form beneath it. But the clouds
would again thicken, and the storm re-commence, with
its former violence; and she began to fear, that the approach
of morning would compel her to meet the now
dreaded face of Doctor Melmoth. At length, however,
a strong and steady wind, supplying the place of the
fitful gusts of the preceding part of the night, broke
and scattered the clouds from the broad expanse of the
sky. The moon commencing her late voyage not long
before the sun, was now visible, setting forth like a
lonely ship from the dark line of the horizon, and touching
at many a little silver cloud, the islands of that
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aerial deep. Ellen felt that now the time was come;
and with a calmness, wonderful to herself, she prepared
for her final departure.
She had not long to wait, ere she saw, between the
vacancies of the trees, the angler, advancing along the
shady avenue that led to the principal entrance of Doctor
Melmoth's dwelling. He had no need to summon
her, either by word or signal; for she had descended,
emerged from the door, and stood before him, while he
was yet at some distance from the house.
`You have watched well,' he observed, in a low,
strange tone. `As saith the scripture, many daughters
have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.'
He took her arm, and they hastened down the avenue.
Then leaving Hugh Crombie's Inn on their right, they
found its master, in a spot so shaded that the moon-beams
could not enlighten it. He held by the bridle two horses,
one of which the angler assisted Ellen to mount. Then,
turning to the landlord, he pressed a purse into his
hand; but Hugh drew back, and it fell to the ground.
`No; this would not have tempted me, nor will it
reward me, he said. If you have gold to spare, there
are some that need it more than I.'
`I understand you, mine host. I shall take thought
for them, and enough will remain for you and me,' replied
his comrade. `I have seen the day when such a
purse would not have slipped between your fingers.
Well, be it so. And now, Hugh, my old friend, a shake
of your hand; for we are seeing our last of each
other.'
`Pray Heaven, it be so; though I wish you no ill,'
said the landlord, giving his hand. He then seemed
about to approach Ellen, who had been unable to distinguish
the words of this brief conversation; but his
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comrade prevented him. `There is no time to lose,' he observed.
`The moon is growing pale already, and we
should have been many a mile beyond the valley, ere
this.' He mounted, as he spoke, and guiding Ellen's
rein till they reached the road, they dashed away.
It was now that she felt herself completely in his
power; and with that consciousness, there came a sudden
change of feeling, and an altered view of her conduct.
A thousand reasons forced themselves upon her
mind, seeming to prove that she had been deceived;
while the motives, so powerful with her but a moment
before, had either vanished from her memory, or lost
all their efficacy. Her companion, who gazed searchingly
into her face, where the moonlight, coming down
between the pines, allowed him to read its expression,
probably discerned somewhat of the state of her thoughts.
`Do you repent so soon?' he inquired. `We have
a weary way before us. Faint not ere we have well
entered upon it.'
`I have left dear friends behind me, and am going I
know not whither,' replied Ellen tremblingly.
`You have a faithful guide,' he observed; turning
away his head, and speaking in the tone of one who
endeavours to smother a laugh.
Ellen had no heart to continue the conversation; and
they rode on in silence, and through a wild and gloomy
scene. The wind roared heavily through the forest, and
the trees shed their rain drops upon the travellers. The
road, at all times rough, was now broken into deep gullies,
through which streams went murmuring down, to
mingle with the river. The pale moonlight combined
with the grey of the morning to give a ghastly and unsubstantial
appearance to every object.
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The difficulties of the road had been so much increased
by the storm, that the purple eastern clouds gave
notice of the near approach of the sun, just as the travellers
reached the little lonesome cottage which Ellen
remembered to have visited several months before. On
arriving opposite to it, her companion checked his horse,
and gazed with a wild earnestness at the wretched habitation.
Then, stifling a groan that would not altogether
be repressed, he was about to pass on. But, at that
moment, the cottage door opened, and a woman, whose
sour, unpleasant countenance Ellen recognised, came
hastily forth. She seemed not to heed the travellers;
but the angler, his voice thrilling and quivering with
indescribable emotion, addressed her.
`Woman, whither do you go?' he inquired.
She started; but, after a momentary pause, replied,
`There is one within at the point of death. She struggles
fearfully, and I cannot endure to watch alone by
her bedside. If you are christians, come in with me.'
Ellen's companion leaped hastily from his horse,
assisted her also to dismount, and followed the woman
into the cottage, having first thrown the bridles of
the horses carelessly over the branch of a tree. Ellen
trembled at the awful scene she would be compelled to
witness; but, when death was so near at hand, it was
more terrible to stand alone in the dim morning light,
than even to watch the parting of soul and body. She
therefore entered the cottage.
Her guide, his face muffled in his cloak, had taken
his stand at a distance from the death-bed, in a part of
the room, which neither the increasing day light nor the
dim rays of a solitary lamp, had yet enlightened. At
Ellen's entrance, the dying woman lay still, and apparently
calm, except that a plaintive, half articulate sound
occasionally wandered through her lips.
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`Hush! For mercy's sake, silence!' whispered the
other woman to the strangers. `There is good hope
now, that she will die a peaceable death; but, if she is
disturbed, the boldest of us will not dare to stand by her
bed-side.'
The whisper, by which her sister endeavoured to
preserve quiet, perhaps reached the ears of the dying
female; for she now raised herself in bed, slowly, but
with a strength superior to what her situation promised.
Her face was ghastly and wild, from long illness, approaching
death, and disturbed intellect; and a disembodied
spirit could scarcely be a more fearful object,
than one whose soul was just struggling forth. Her
sister, approaching with the soft and stealing step appropriate
to the chamber of sickness and death, attempted
to replace the covering around her, and to compose
her again upon the pillow. `Lie down and sleep, sister,'
she said; `and when the day breaks, I will waken you.
Methinks your breath comes freer, already. A little
more slumber, and tomorrow you will be well.'
`My illness is gone, I am well,' said the dying woman,
gasping for breath. `I wander where the fresh
breeze comes sweetly over my face, but a close and
stifled air has choked my lungs.'
`Yet a little while and you will no longer draw your
breath in pain,' observed her sister, again replacing the
bed-clothes, which she continued to throw off.
`My husband is with me,' murmured the widow.
`He walks by my side, and speaks to me as in old times;
but his words come faintly on my ear; cheer me and
comfort me, my husband; for there is a terror in those
dim, motionless eyes, and in that shadowy voice.'
As she spoke thus, she seemed to gaze upon some
object that stood by her bed-side, and the eyes of those
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who witnessed this scene could not but follow the direction
of hers. They observed that the dying woman's
own shadow was marked upon the wall, receiving a
tremulous motion from the fitful rays of the lamp, and
from her own convulsive efforts. `My husband stands
gazing on me,' she said, again; `but my son,—where
is he?—and as I ask, the father turns away his face.
Where is our son? For his sake I have longed to
come to this land of rest. For him I have sorrowed
many years. Will he not comfort me now?'
At these words, the stranger made a few hasty steps
towards the bed; but, ere he reached it, he conquered
the impulse that drew him thither, and, shrouding his
face more deeply in his cloak, returned to his former
position. The dying woman, in the meantime, had
thrown herself back upon the bed; and her sobbing and
wailing, imaginary as was their cause, were inexpressibly
affecting.
`Take me back to earth,' she said; `for its griefs
have followed me hither.'
The stranger advanced, and, seizing the lamp, knelt
down by the bed-side, throwing the light full upon his
pale and convulsed features.
`Mother, here is your son,' he exclaimed.
At that unforgotten voice, the darkness burst away
at once from her soul. She arose in bed, her eyes and
her whole countenance beaming with joy, and threw her
arms about his neck. A multitude of words seemed
struggling for utterance; but they gave place to a low
moaning sound, and then to the silence of death. The
one moment of happiness, that recompensed years of
sorrow, had been her last. Her son laid the lifeless
form upon the pillow, and gazed with fixed eyes on his
mother's face.
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As he looked, the expression of enthusiastic joy, that
parting life had left upon the features, faded gradually
away, and the countenance, though no longer wild,
assumed the sadness which it had worn through a long
course of grief and pain. On beholding this natural
consequence of death, the thought perhaps occurred to
him, that her soul, no longer dependant on the imperfect
means of intercourse possessed by mortals, had communed
with his own, and become acquainted with all its
guilt and misery. He started from the bed-side, and
covered his face with his hands, as if to hide it from
those dead eyes.
Such a scene as has been described could not but
have a powerful effect upon any one, who retained
aught of humanity; and the grief of the son, whose
natural feelings had been blunted, but not destroyed, by
an evil life, was much more violent than his outward
demeanor would have expressed. But his deep repentance,
for the misery he had brought upon his parent,
did not produce in him a resolution to do wrong no more.
The sudden consciousness of accumulated guilt made
him desperate. He felt as if no one had thenceforth a
claim to justice or compassion at his hands, when his
neglect and cruelty had poisoned his mother's life, and
hastened her death. Thus it was that the Devil wrought
with him to his own destruction, reversing the salutary
effect, which his mother would have died, exultingly, to
produce upon his mind. He now turned to Ellen
Langton, with a demeanour singularly calm and composed.
`We must resume our journey,' he said, in his usual
tone of voice. `The sun is on the point of rising,
though but little light finds its way into this hovel.'
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Ellen's previous suspicions as to the character of her
companion had now become certainty, so far as to convince
her that she was in the power of a lawless and
guilty man; though what fate he intended for her, she
was unable to conjecture. An open opposition to his
will, however, could not be ventured upon; especially
as she discovered, on looking round the apartment, that,
with the exception of the corpse, they were alone.
`Will you not attend your mother's funeral?' she
asked, trembling, and conscious that he would discover
her fears.
`The dead must bury their dead,' he replied; `I have
brought my mother to her grave;—and what can a son
do more? This purse, however, will serve to lay her in
the earth, and leave something for the old hag. Whither
is she gone?' interrupted he, casting a glance round
the room in search of the old woman. `Nay, then, we
must speedily to horse. I know her of old.'
Thus saying, he threw the purse upon the table,
and without trusting himself to look again towards the
dead, conducted Ellen out of the cottage. The first
rays of the sun at that moment gilded the tallest trees of
the forest.
On looking towards the spot where the horses had
stood, Ellen thought that Providence, in answer to her
prayers, had taken care for her deliverance. They
were no longer there, a circumstance easily accounted for,
by the haste with which the bridles had been thrown
over the branch of the tree. Her companion, however,
imputed it to another cause.
`The hag! She would sell her own flesh and blood
by weight and measure,' he muttered to himself. `This
is some plot of hers, I know well.'
He put his hand to his forehead, for a moment's space,
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seeming to reflect on the course most advisable to be
pursued. Ellen, perhaps unwisely, interposed.
`Would it not be well to return?' she asked, timidly.
`There is now no hope of escaping; but I might yet
reach home undiscovered.'
`Return!' repeated her guide, with a look and smile
from which she turned away her face. `Have you
forgotten your father and his misfortunes? No, no,
sweet Ellen; it is too late for such thoughts as these.'
He took her hand, and led her towards the forest, in
the rear of the cottage. She would fain have resisted;
but they were all alone, and the attempt must have been
both fruitless and dangerous. She therefore trod with him
a path, so devious, so faintly traced, and so overgrown
with bushes and young trees, that only a most accurate
acquaintance in his early days could have enabled her
guide to retain it. To him, however, it seemed so perfectly
familiar, that he was not once compelled to pause,
though the numerous windings soon deprived Ellen of
all knowledge of the situation of the cottage. They
descended a steep hill, and proceeding parallel to the
river—as Ellen judged by its rushing sound—at length
found themselves at what proved to be the termination
of their walk.
Ellen now recollected a remark of Edward Walcott's,
respecting the wild and rude scenery, through which the
river here kept its way; and, in less agitating circumstances,
her pleasure and admiration would have been
great. They stood beneath a precipice, so high that
the loftiest pine tops (and many of them seemed to soar
to Heaven) scarcely surmounted it. This line of rock
has a considerable extent, at unequal heights and with
many interruptions, along the course of the river, and it
seems probable, that, at some former period, it was the
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boundary of the waters, though they are now confined
within far less ambitious limits. The inferior portion
of the crag, beneath which Ellen and her guide were
standing, varies so far from the perpendicular as not to
be inaccessible by a careful footstep; but only one person
has been known to attempt the ascent of the superior
half, and only one the descent, yet steep as is the
height, trees and bushes of various kinds have clung to
the rock, wherever their roots could gain the slightest
hold,—thus seeming to prefer the scanty and difficult
nourishment of the cliff, to a more luxurious life in the
rich interval that extends from its base to the river.
But, whether or no these hardy vegetables have voluntarily
chosen their rude resting place, the cliff is indebted
to them for much of the beauty that tempers its
sublimity. When the eye is pained and wearied by the
bold nakedness of the rock, it rests with pleasure on the
cheerful foliage of the birch, or upon the darker green
of the funereal fire. Just at the termination of the accessible
portion of the crag, these trees are so numerous,
and their foliage so dense, that they completely shroud
from view a considerable excavation, formed, probably,
hundreds of years since, by the fall of a portion of the
rock. The detached fragment still lies at a little
distance from the base, grey and moss-grown, but corresponding,
in its general outline, to the cavity from
which it was rent.
But the most singular and beautiful object in all this
scene, is a tiny fount of chrystal water, that gushes forth
from the high, smooth forehead of the cliff. Its perpendicular
descent is of many feet; after which it finds its
way, with a sweet, diminutive murmur, to the level
ground.
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It is not easy to conceive, whence the barren rock
procures even the small supply of water, that is necessary
to the existence of this stream; it is as unaccountable,
as the gush of gentle feeling which sometimes proceeds
from the hardest heart; but there it continues to flow
and fall, undiminished and unincreased. The stream is
so slender, that the gentlest breeze suffices to disturb
its descent, and to scatter its pure sweet waters over the
face of the cliff. But, in that deep forest, there is seldom
a breath of wind: so that, plashing continually upen
one spot, the fount has worn its own little channel of
white sand, by which it finds its way to the river. Alas,
that the Naiades have lost their old authority; for what
a Deity of tiny loveliness must once have presided
here!
Ellen's companion paused not to gaze either upon
the loveliness or the sublimity of this scene, but assisting
her where it was requisite, began the steep and
difficult ascent of the lower part of the cliff. The
maiden's ingenuity in vain endeavoured to assign reasons
for this movement; but when they reached the
tuft of trees, which, as has been noticed, grew at the
ultimate point where mortal footstep might safely tread,
she perceived through their thick branches the recess
in the rock. Here they entered; and her guide pointed
to a mossy seat, in the formation of which, to judge
from its regularity, art had probably a share.
`Here you may remain in safety,' he observed, `till I
obtain the means of proceeding, In this spot you need
fear no intruder; but it will be dangerous to venture
beyond its bounds.'
The meaning glance that accompanied these words,
intimated to poor Ellen, that, in warning her against
danger, he alluded to the vengeance with which he would
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visit any attempt to escape. To leave her thus alone,
trusting to the influence of such a threat, was a bold,
yet a necessary and by no means a hopeless measure.
On Ellen, it produced the desired effect; and she sat
in the cave as motionless, for a time, as if she had herself
been a part of the rock. In other circumstances,
this shady recess would have been a delightful retreat,
during the sultry warmth of a summer's day. The dewy
coolness of the rock kept the air always fresh, and the
sunbeams never thrust themselves so as to dissipate the
mellow twilight through the green trees with which the
chamber was curtained. Ellen's sleeplessness and agitation,
for many preceding hours, had perhaps deadened
her feelings; for she now felt a sort of indifference
creeping upon her, an inability to realize the evils of her
situation, at the same time that she was perfectly aware
of them all. This torpor of mind increased, till her eyelids
began to grow heavy, and the cave and trees to
swim before her sight. In a few moments more, she
would probably have been in dreamless slumber; but,
rousing herself by a strong effort, she looked round the
narrow limits of the cave, in search of objects to excite
her worn-out mind.
She now perceived, wherever the smooth rock afforded
place for them, the initials, or the full length names,
of former visitants of the cave. What wanderer on
mountain-tops, or in deep solitudes, has not felt the influence
of these records of humanity, telling him, when
such a conviction is soothing to his heart, that he is not
alone in the world? It was singular, that, when her
own mysterious situation had almost lost its power to
engage her thoughts, Ellen perused these barren memorials
with a certain degree of interest. She went on
repeating them aloud, and starting at the sound of her
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own voice, till at length, as one name passed through
her lips, she paused, and then, leaning her forehead
against the letters, burst into tears. It was the name
of Edward Walcott; and it struck upon her heart,
arousing her to a full sense of her present misfortunes
and dangers, and, more painful still, of her past happiness.
Her tears had, however, a soothing, and at the
same time a strengthening effect upon her mind; for,
when their gush was over, she raised her head and began
to meditate on the means of escape. She wondered at
the species of fascination that had kept her, as if chained
to the rock, so long, when there was, in reality, nothing
to bar her path-way. She determined, late as it was,
to attempt her own deliverance; and for that purpose
began slowly and cautiously to emerge from the cave.
Peeping out from among the trees, she looked and
listened with most painful anxiety, to discover if any
living thing were in that seeming solitude, or if any
sound disturbed the heavy stillness. But she saw only
nature, in her wildest forms, and heard only the plash
and murmur (almost inaudible, because continual) of
the little waterfall, and the quick, short throbbing of her
own heart, against which she pressed her hand, as if to
hush it. Gathering courage, therefore, she began to
descend; and, starting often at the loose stones that
even her light footstep displaced and sent rattling down,
she at length reached the base of the crag in safety.
She then made a few steps in the direction, as nearly
as she could judge, by which she arrived at the spot;
but paused, with a sudden revulsion of the blood to her
heart, as her guide emerged from behind a projecting
part of the rock. He approached her deliberately, an
ironical smile writhing his features into a most disagreeable
expression, while in his eyes there was something
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that seemed a wild, fierce joy. By a species of sophistry
of which oppressors often make use, he had brought
himself to believe that he was now the injured one, and
that Ellen, by her distrust of him, had fairly subjected
herself to whatever evil it consisted with his will and
power to inflict upon her. Her only restraining influence
over him, the consciousness in his own mind that
he possessed her confidence, was now done away.
Ellen, as well as her enemy, felt that this was the case.
She knew not what to dread; but she was well aware
that danger was at hand, and that, in the deep wilderness,
there was none to help her, except that Being,
with whose inscrutable purposes it might consist, to
allow the wicked to triumph for a season, and the innocent
to be brought low.
`Are you so soon weary of this quiet retreat?' demanded
her guide, continuing to wear the same sneering
smile. `Or has your anxiety for your father induced
you to set forth alone, in quest of the afflicted old
man?'
`Oh, if I were but with him!' exclaimed Ellen. `But
this place is lonely and fearful, and I cannot endure to
remain here.'
`Lonely, is it, sweet Ellen?' he rejoined, `am I not
with you? Yes, it is lonely—lonely as guilt could wish.
Cry aloud, Ellen, and spare not. Shriek, and see if
there be any among these rocks and woods to hearken
to you!'
`There is—there is one,' exclaimed Ellen, shuddering
and affrighted at the fearful meaning of his countenance.
`He is here—He is there.' And she pointed
to heaven.
`It may be so, dearest,' he replied. `But if there be
an ear that hears, and an eye that sees all the evil of the
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earth, yet the arm is slow to avenge. Else why do I
stand before you, a living man?'
`His vengeance may be delayed for a time, but not
forever,' she answered, gathering a desperate courage
from the extremity of her fear.
`You say true, lovely Ellen; and I have done enough,
ere now, to insure its heaviest weight. There is a pass,
when evil deeds can add nothing to guilt, nor good ones
take anything from it.'
`Think of your mother,—of her sorrow through life,
and perhaps even after death,' Ellen began to say. But
as she spoke these words, the expression of his face
was changed, becoming suddenly so dark and fiend-like,
that she clasped her hands and fell on her knees before
him.
`I have thought of my mother,' he replied, speaking
very low, and putting his face close to hers. `I remember
the neglect—the wrong—the lingering and miserable
death, that she received at my hands. By what
claim can either man or woman henceforth expect mercy
from me? If God will help you, be it so; but by
those words you have turned my heart to stone.'
At this period of their conversation, when Ellen's
peril seemed most imminent, the attention of both was
attracted by a fragment of rock, which, falling from the
summit of the crag, struck very near them. Ellen
started from her knees, and, with her false guide, gazed
eagerly upward; he in the fear of interruption, she in the
hope of deliverance.
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CHAPTER IX.
At length, he cries, behold the fated spring!
Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest,
Dark rocks it's chrystal source o'ershadowing.
Psyche.
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The tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, as will be
recollected, after being overtaken by Edward Walcott,
was left with little apparent prospect of aiding in the
deliverance of Ellen Langton.
It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with which
the student pursued the chase, or to decide whether he
was influenced and animated by the same hopes of successful
love, that cheered his rival. That he was conscious
of such hopes, there is little reason to suppose;
for the most powerful minds are not always the best
acquainted with their own feelings. Had Fanshawe,
moreover, acknowledged to himself the possibility of
gaining Ellen's affections, his generosity would have
induced him to refrain from her society, before it was
too late. He had read her character with accuracy,
and had seen how fit she was to love, and to be loved
by a man who could find his happiness in the common
occupation of the world; and Fanshawe never deceived
himself so far, as to suppose that this would be the case
with him. Indeed, he often wondered at the passion,
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with which Ellen's simple loveliness of mind and person
had inspired him, and which seemed to be founded on
the principle of contrariety, rather than of sympathy.
It was the yearning of a soul, formed by Nature in a
peculiar mould, for communion with those to whom it
bore a resemblance, yet of whom it was not. But there
was no reason to suppose that Ellen, who differed from
the multitude only as being purer and better, would cast
away her affections on the one, of all who surrounded her
least fitted to make her happy. Thus Fanshawe reasoned
with himself, and of this he believed that he was
convinced. Yet, ever and anon, he found himself
involved in a dream of bliss, of which Ellen was to be
the giver and the sharer. Then would he rouse himself,
and press upon his mind the chilling consciousness,
that it was, and could be, but a dream. There was
also another feeling, apparently discordant with those
which have been enumerated. It was a longing for
rest,—for his old retirement, that came at intervals so
powerfully upon him, as he rode on, that his heart
sickened of the active exertion on which fate had thrust
him.
After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Fanshawe
continued his journey with as much speed as was attainable
by his wearied horse, but at a pace infinitely too
slow for his earnest thoughts. These had carried him
far away, leaving him only such a consciousness of his
present situation as to make diligent use of the spur,
when a horse's tread, at no great distance, struck upon
his ear. He looked forward, and behind; but, though
a considerable extent of the narrow, rocky, and grass
grown road was visible, he was the only traveller there
Yet again he heard the sound, which, he now discovered,
proceeded from among the trees that lined the
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roadside. Alighting, he entered the forest, with the intention,
if the steed proved to be disengaged and superior to
his own, of appropriating him to his own use. He soon
gained a view of the object he sought; but the animal
rendered a closer acquaintance unattainable, by immediately
taking to his heels. Fanshawe had however made
a most interesting discovery; for the horse was accoutred
with a side-saddle; and who, but Ellen Langton,
could have been his rider? At this conclusion, though
his perplexity was thereby in no degree diminished, the
student immediately arrived. Returning to the road,
and perceiving on the summit of the hill a cottage, which
he recognized as the one he had entered with Ellen and
Edward Walcott, he determined there to make inquiry
respecting the objects of his pursuit.
On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwelling,
he saw that it was not now so desolate of inmates as on
his previous visit. In the single inhabitable apartment
were several elderly women, clad evidently in their
well-worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing
a deep-grievous expression of countenance. Fanshawe
was not long in deciding, that death was within
the cottage, and that these aged females were of the
class who love the house of mourning, because to them
it is a house of feasting. It is a fact, disgusting and
lamentable, that the disposition which heaven for the
best of purposes has implanted in the female breast—to
watch by the sick and comfort the afflicted, frequently
becomes depraved into an odious love of scenes of pain,
and death and sorrow. Such women are like the Gouls
of the Arabian Tales, whose feasting was among tombstones,
and upon dead carcasses.
(It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case,
that this disposition to make a `joy of grief' extends to
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individuals of the other sex. But in us it is even less
excusable and more disgusting, because it is our nature
to shun the sick and afflicted; and, unless restrained by
principles other than we bring into the world with us,
men might follow the example of many animals in destroying
the infirm of their own species. Indeed, instances
of this nature might be adduced among savage
nations.) Sometimes, however, from an original lusus
naturœ, or from the influence of circumstances, a man
becomes a haunter of death beds,—a tormentor of afflicted
hearts,—and a follower of funerals. Such an abomination
now appeared before Fanshawe, and beckoned him
into the cottage. He was considerably beyond the
middle age, rather corpulent, with a broad, fat, tallow
complexioned countenance. The student obeyed his
silent call, and entered the room, through the open door
of which he had been gazing.
He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed, where
she had so lately laid in life, though dying, the yet uncoffined
corpse of the aged woman, whose death has
been described. How frightful it seemed!—that fixed
countenance of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of
muslin and fine linen,—as if a bride were decked for the
marriage chamber,—as if death were a bridegroom, and
the coffin a bridal bed. Alas, that the vanity of dress
should extend even to the grave!
The female, who, as being the near and only relative
of the deceased, was supposed to stand in need of comfort,
was surrounded by five or six of her own sex.
These continually poured into her ear the stale, trite
maxims, which, where consolation is actually required, add
torture insupportable to the wounded heart. Their present
object, however, conducted herself with all due decorum,
holding her handkerchief to her tearless eyes,
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and answering with very grievous groans to the words
of her comforters. Who could have imagined that there
was joy in her heart, because, since her sister's death,
there was but one remaining obstacle between herself
and the sole property of that wretched cottage?
While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene,
a low, monotonous voice was uttering some words in his
ear, of the meaning of which his mind did not immediately
take note. He turned, and saw that the speaker
was the person who had invited him to enter.
`What is your pleasure with me, Sir?' demanded the
student.
`I made bold to ask,' replied the man, `whether you
would choose to partake of some creature comfort, before
joining in prayer with the family and friends of our
deceased sister?' As he spoke, he pointed to a table,
on which was a moderate sized stone jug, and two or
three broken glasses; for then, as now, there were few
occasions of joy or grief, on which ardent spirits were
not considered indispensable, to heighten the one, or to
alleviate the other.
`I stand in no need of refreshment,' answered Fanshawe;
`and it is not my intention to pray at present.'
`I pray your pardon, reverend sir,' rejoined the other;
`but your face is pale, and you look wearied. A drop
from yonder vessel is needful to recruit the outward
man. And for the prayer, the sisters will expect it, and
their souls are longing for the outpouring of the spirit.
I was intending to open my own mouth, with such
words as are given to my poor ignorance, but'—
Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address,
which proceeded on the supposition, arising from his
black dress and thoughtful countenance, that he was a
clergyman. But one of the females now approached
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him, and intimated that the sister of the deceased was
desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He would
have returned a negative to this request, but, looking
towards the afflicted woman, he saw her withdraw her
handkerchief from her eyes, and cast a brief, but penetrating
and most intelligent, glance upon him. He
immediately expressed his readiness to offer such consolation
as might be in his power.
`And in the meantime,' observed the lay-preacher,
`I will give the sisters to expect a word of prayer and
exhortation, either from you or from myself.'
These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman,
who was already at the side of the mourner. The females
withdrew out of ear-shot, to give place to a more
legitimate comforter than themselves.
`What know you respecting my purpose?' inquired
Fanshawe, bending towards her.
The woman gave a groan—the usual result of all efforts
at consolation—for the edification of the company;
and then replied in a whisper, which reached only the
ear for which it was intended. `I know whom you come
to seek,—I can direct you to them. Speak low, for
God's sake,' she continued, observing that Fanshawe
was about to utter an exclamation. She then resumed
her groans, with greater zeal than before.
`Where—where are they?' asked the student, in a
whisper which all his efforts could scarcely keep below
his breath. `I adjure you to tell me.'
`And if I should, how am I like to be bettered by it?'
inquired the old woman, her speech still preceded and
followed by a groan.
`Oh God!—The `auri sacra fames!' thought Fanshawe
with a sickening heart, looking at the motionless
corpse upon the bed, and then at the wretched being,
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whom the course of nature, in comparatively a moment
of time, would reduce to the same condition.
He whispered again, however, putting his purse into
the hag's hand. `Take this. Make your own terms
when they are discovered. Only tell me where I must
seek them,—and speedily, or it may be too late.'
`I am a poor woman and am afflicted,' said she, taking
the purse, unseen by any who were in the room.
`It is little that worldly goods can do for me, and not
long can I enjoy them,' and here she was delivered of a
louder, and a more heartfelt groan, than ever. She
then continued, `Follow the path behind the cottage,
that leads to the river side. Walk along the foot of the
rock, and search for them near the water-spout; keep a
slow pace till you are out of sight,' she added, as the
student started to his feet.
The guests of the cottage did not attempt to oppose
Fanshawe's progress, when they saw him take the path
towards the forest, imagining, probably, that he was retiring
for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old
woman laughed behind the handkerchief with which
she veiled her face.
`Take heed to your steps, boy,' she muttered; `for
they are leading you whence you will not return. Death
too, for the slayer. Be it so.'
Fanshawe, in the meanwhile, continued to discover,
and, for awhile, to retain, the narrow and winding path
that led to the river side. But it was originally no more
than a track, by which the cattle belonging to the cottage
went down to their watering place; and by these
four-footed passengers it had long been deserted. The
fern bushes, therefore, had grown over it, and in several
places, trees of considerable size had shot up in the
midst. These difficulties could scarcely have been
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surmounted by the utmost caution; and as Fanshawe's
thoughts were too deeply fixed upon the end, to pay a
due regard to the means, he soon became desperately
bewildered, both as to the locality of the river, and of
the cottage. Had he known, however, in which direction
to seek the latter, he would not probably have turned
back; not that he was infected by any chivalrous desire
to finish the adventure alone; but because he would
expect little assistance from those he had left there.—
Yet he could not but wonder—though he had not in his
first eagerness taken notice of it—at the anxiety of the
old woman that he should proceed singly, and without
the knowledge of her guests, on the search. He nevertheless
continued to wander on,—pausing often to listen
for the rush of the river, and then starting forward, with
fresh rapidity, to rid himself of the sting of his own
thoughts, which became painfully intense, when undisturbed
by bodily motion. His way was now frequently
interrupted by rocks, that thrust their huge grey heads
from the ground, compelling him to turn aside, and thus
depriving him, fortunately perhaps, of all remaining
idea of the direction he had intended to pursue.
Thus he went on—his head turned back, and taking
little heed to his footsteps—when, perceiving that he
trod upon a smooth, level rock, he looked forward, and
found himself almost on the utmost verge of a precipice.
After the throbbing of the heart that followed this narrow
escape had subsided, he stood gazing down where
the sun-beams slept so pleasantly at the roots of the tall
old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon a level.
Suddenly he seemed to hear voices—one well remembered
voice—ascending from beneath; and approaching
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[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its base the two whom
he sought.
He saw and interpreted Ellen's look and attitude of
entreaty, though the words, with which she sought to
soften the ruthless heart of her guide, became inaudible,
ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. He
felt that Heaven had sent him thither, at the moment of
her utmost need, to be the preserver of all that was dear
to him, and he paused only to consider the mode in which
her deliverance was to be effected. Life he would have
laid down willingly—exultingly;—his only care was,
that the sacrifice should not be in vain.
At length, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted a
small fragment of rock, and threw it down the cliff. It
struck so near the pair, that it immediately drew the attention
of both.
When the betrayer—at the instant in which he had almost
defied the power of the Omnipotent to bring help
to Ellen—became aware of Fanshawe's presence, his
hardihood failed him for a time, and his knees actually
tottered beneath him. There was something awful, to
his apprehension, in the slight form that stood so far
above him, like a being from another sphere, looking
down upon his wickedness. But his half superstitious
dread endured only a moment's space; and then, mustering
the courage that in a thousand dangers had not
deserted him, he prepared to revenge the intrusion by
which Fanshawe had a second time interrupted his de
signs.
`By heaven, I will cast him down at her feet!' he muttered
through his closed teeth. `There shall be no
form nor likeness of man left in him. Then let him rise
up, if he is able, and defend her.'
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Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard, in his eager
hatred, and desire for vengeance, he began a desperate
attempt to ascend the cliff. The space, which only
had hitherto been deemed accessible, was quickly past,
and in a moment more he was half way up the precipice,
clinging to trees, shrubs, and projecting portions of the
rock, and escaping through hazards which seemed to
menace inevitable destruction.
Fanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, deemed
that every step would be his last; but when he perceived
that more than half, and, apparently, the most difficult
part of the ascent was surmounted, his opinion
changed. His courage, however, did not fail him, as the
moment of need drew nigh. His spirits rose buoyantly,
his limbs seemed to grow firm and strong, and he stood
on the edge of the precipice, prepared for the death-struggle
which would follow the success of his enemy's
attempt.
But that attempt was not successful. When within a
few feet of the summit, the adventurer grasped at a twig,
too slenderly rooted to sustain his weight. It gave way
in his hand, and he fell backward down the precipice.
His head struck against the less perpendicular part of
the rock, whence the body rolled heavily down to
the detached fragment, of which mention has heretofore
been made. There was no life left in him. With all
the passions of hell alive in his heart, he had met the
fate that he intended for Fanshawe.
The student paused not, then, to shudder at the sudden
and awful overthrow of his enemy, for he saw that
Ellen lay motionless at the foot of the cliff. She had,
indeed, fainted, at the moment she became aware of her
deliverer's presence,—and no stronger proof could she
have given of her firm reliance upon his protection.
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Fanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of which
he had just received so fearful an evidence, from attempting
to descend to her assistance; and whether owing
to his advantage in lightness of frame, or to superior
caution, he arrived safely at the base of the precipice.
He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, and
resting her head against his shoulder, gazed on her
cheek of lily paleness, with a joy—a triumph—that rose
almost to madness. It contained no mixture of hope,
it had no reference to the future,—it was the perfect
bliss of a moment,—an insulated point of happiness.
He bent over her and pressed a kiss—the first, and he
knew it would be the last—on her pale lips; then bearing
her to the fountain, he sprinkled its waters profusely
over her face, neck, and bosom. She at length opened
her eyes, slowly and heavily; but her mind was
evidently wandering, till Fanshawe spoke.
`Fear not, Ellen; you are safe,' he said.
At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was thrown
over his shoulder, involuntarily tightened its embrace,
telling him, by that mute motion, with how firm a trust
she confided in him. But, as a fuller sense of her situation
returned, she raised herself to her feet, though
still retaining the support of his arm. It was singular,
that, although her insensibility had commenced before
the fall of her guide, she turned away her eyes, as if
instinctively, from the spot where the mangled body lay;
nor did she inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her
deliverance.
`Let us begone from this place,' she said, in faint, low
accents, and with an inward shudder.
They walked along the precipice, seeking some passage
by which they might gain its summit, and at length
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arrived at that by which Ellen and her guide had descended.
Chance,—for neither Ellen nor Fanshawe
could have discovered the path,—led them, after but
little wandering, to the cottage. A messenger was sent
forward to the town, to inform Doctor Melmoth of the
recovery of his ward; and the intelligence thus received
had interrupted Edward Walcott's conversation with the
seaman.
It would have been impossible, in the mangled remains
of Ellen's guide, to discover the son of the widow
Butler, except from the evidence of her sister, who became
by his death the sole inheritrix of the cottage.
The history of this evil and unfortunate man must be
comprised within very narrow limits. A harsh father,
and his own untameable disposition, had driven him from
home in his boyhood, and chance had made him the
temporary companion of Hugh Crombie. After two
years of wandering, when in a foreign country and in
circumstances of utmost need, he attracted the notice
of Mr. Langton. The merchant took his young countryman
under his protection, afforded him advantages of
education, and, as his capacity was above mediocrity,
gradually trusted him in many affairs of importance.
During this period, there was no evidence of dishonesty
on his part. On the contrary, he manifested a zeal for
Mr. Langton's interest, and a respect for his person,
that proved his strong sense of the benefits he had received.
But he unfortunately fell into certain youthful
indiscretions, which, if not entirely pardonable, might
have been palliated by many considerations, that would
have occurred to a merciful man. Mr. Langton's
justice, however, was seldom tempered by mercy; and
on this occasion, he shut the door of repentance against
his erring protegéé, and left him in a situation not less
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desperate, than that from which he had relieved him.
The goodness and the nobleness, of which his heart was
not destitute, turned, from that time, wholly to evil, and
he became irrecoverably ruined and irreclaimably depraved.
His wandering life had led him, shortly before
the period of this tale, to his native country. Here the
erroneous intelligence of Mr. Langton's death had
reached him, and suggested the scheme, which circumstances
seemed to render practicable, but the fatal termination
of which has been related.
The body was buried where it had fallen, close by
the huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock,—a monument
on which centuries can work little change. The
eighty years that have elapsed since the death of the
widow's son, have, however, been sufficient to obliterate
an inscription, which some one was at the pains to
cut in the smooth surface of the stone. Traces of letters
are still discernible; but the writer's many efforts could
never discover a connected meaning. The grave, also,
is overgrown with fern bushes, and sunk to a level with
the surrounding soil. But the legend, though my version
of it may be forgotten, will long be traditionary in
that lonely spot, and give to the rock, and the precipice,
and the fountain, an interest thrilling to the bosom of the
romantic wanderer.
-- 135 --
CHAPTER X.
Sitting then in shelter shady,
To observe and mark his mone
Suddenly I saw a Lady
Hasting to him all alone,
Clad in maiden-white and green:
Whom I judg'd the Forrest Queen.
The wood-man's bear.
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
During several weeks succeeding her danger and deliverance,
Ellen Langton was confined to her chamber,
by illness, resulting from the agitation she had endured.
Her father embraced the earliest opportunity to express
his deep gratitude to Fanshawe for the inestimable service
he had rendered, and to intimate a desire to requite
it, to the utmost of his power. He had understood that
the student's circumstances were not prosperous, and,
with the feeling of one who was habituated to give and
receive a `quid pro quo,' he would have rejoiced to share
his abundance with the deliverer of his daughter. But
Fanshawe's flushed brow and haughty eye, when he
perceived the thought that was stirring in Mr. Langton's
mind, sufficiently proved to the discerning merchant,
that money was not in the present instance a circulating
medium. His penetration, in fact, very soon informed
him of the motives by which the young man had been
actuated, in risking his life for Ellen Langton; but he
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made no allusion to the subject,—concealing his intentions,
if any he had, in his own bosom.
During Ellen's illness, Edward Walcott had manifested
the deepest anxiety respecting her; he had wandered
around and within the house, like a restless ghost,
informing himself of the slightest fluctuation in her
health, and thereby graduating his happiness or misery.
He was at length informed that her convalescence had
so far progressed, that on the succeeding day she would
venture below. From that time, Edward's visits to
Doctor Melmoth's mansion were relinquished;—his
cheek grew pale, and his eye lost its merry light,—but
he resolutely kept himself a banished man. Multifarious
were the conjectures to which this course of conduct
gave rise; but Ellen understood and approved his
motives. The maiden must have been far more blind
than ever woman was, in such a matter, if the late events
had not convinced her of Fanshawe's devoted attachment;
and she saw that Edward Walcott, feeling the
superior, the irresistible strength of his rival's claim,
had retired from the field. Fanshawe, however, discovered
no intention to pursue his advantage. He paid her
no voluntary visit, and even declined an invitation to tea,
with which Mrs. Melmoth, after extensive preparations,
had favoured him. He seemed to have resumed all the
habits of seclusion, by which he was distinguished previous
to his acquaintance with Ellen,—except that he
still took his sunset walk, on the banks of the stream.
On one of these occasions, he staid his footsteps by
the old leafless oak, which had witnessed Ellen's first
meeting with the angler. Here he mused upon the
circumstances that had resulted from that event, and
upon the rights and privileges—for he was well aware
of them all—which those circumstances had given him.
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Perhaps the loveliness of the scene, and the recollections
connected with it,—perhaps the warm and mellow sunset,—
perhaps a temporary weakness in himself, had
softened his feelings, and shaken the firmness of his
resolution, to leave Ellen to be happy with his rival.
His strong affections rose up against his reason, whispering
that bliss,—on earth and in Heaven, through time
and Eternity,—might yet be his lot with her. It is impossible
to conceive of the flood of momentary joy,
which the bare admission of such a possibility sent
through his frame; and just when the tide was highest
in his heart, a soft little hand was laid upon his own,
and, starting, he beheld Ellen at his side.
Her illness, since the commencement of which, Fanshawe
had not seen her, had wrought a considerable,
but not a disadvantageous change in her appearance.
She was paler and thinner,—her countenance was more
intellectual—more spiritual,—and a spirit did the student
almost deem her, appearing so suddenly in that solitude.
There was a quick vibration of the delicate blood in her
cheek, yet never brightening to the glow of perfect
health; a tear was glittering on each of her long dark
eye lashes; and there was a gentle tremor through all
her frame, which compelled her, for a little space, to
support herself against the oak. Fanshawe's first
impulse was, to address her in words of rapturous delight;
but he checked himself, and attempted—vainly,
indeed—to clothe his voice in tones of calm courtesy.
His remark merely expressed pleasure at her restoration
to health; and Ellen's low and indistinct reply had as
little relation to the feelings that agitated her.
`Yet I fear,' continued Fanshawe, recovering a degree
of composure, and desirous of assigning a motive (which
he felt was not the true one) for Ellen's agitation,—`I
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fear that your walk has extended too far for your
strength.'
`It would have borne me farther, with such a motive,'
she replied, still trembling,—`to express my gratitude to
my preserver.'
`It was needless Ellen, it was needless; for the deed
brought with it its own reward,' exclaimed Fanshawe,
with a vehemence that he could not repress. `It was
dangerous, for'—
Here he interrupted himself, and turned his face
away.
`And wherefore was it dangerous?' inquired Ellen,
laying her hand gently on his arm; for he seemed
about to leave her.
`Because you have a tender and generous heart, and
I a weak one,' he replied.
`Not so,' answered she, with animation. `Yours is a
heart, full of strength and nobleness; and if it have a
weakness'—
`You know well that it has, Ellen,—one that has
swallowed up all its strength,' said Fanshawe. `Was it
wise, then, to tempt it thus—when, if it yield, the result
must be your own misery?'
Ellen did not affect to misunderstand his meaning.
On the contrary, with a noble frankness, she answered
to what was implied, rather than expressed.
`Do me not this wrong,' she said, blushing, yet
earnestly. `Can it be misery—will it not be happiness
to form the tie that shall connect you to the world?—
to be your guide—a humble one, it is true, but the one
of your choice—to the quiet paths, from which your
proud and lonely thoughts have estranged you? Oh!
I know that there will be happiness in such a lot, from
these and a thousand other sources.'
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The animation with which Ellen spoke, and, at the
same time, a sense of the singular course to which her
gratitude had impelled her, caused her beauty to grow
brighter and more enchanting with every word. And
when, as she concluded, she extended her hand to Fanshawe,
to refuse it was like turning from an angel, who
would have guided him to heaven. But, had he been
capable of making the woman he loved a sacrifice to her
own generosity, that act would have rendered him unworthy
of her. Yet the struggle was a severe one, ere
he could reply.
`You have spoken generously and nobly, Ellen,' he
said. `I have no way to prove that I deserve your
generosity, but by refusing to take advantage of it.
Even if your heart were yet untouched,—if no being,
more happily constituted than myself, had made an impression
there,—even then, I trust, a selfish passion
would not be stronger than my integrity. But now,'—
He would have proceeded, but the firmness, which had
hitherto sustained him, gave way. He turned aside to
hide the tears, which all the pride of his nature could
not restrain, and which, instead of relieving, added to
his anguish. At length he resumed. `No, Ellen, we
must part now and forever. Your life will be long and happy.
Mine will be short, but not altogether wretched,—
nor shorter than if we had never met. When you hear
that I am in my grave, do not imagine that you have
hastened me thither. Think that you scattered bright
dreams around my path-way,—an ideal happiness, that
you would have sacrificed your own to realize.'
He ceased; and Ellen felt that his determination was
unalterable. She could not speak; but taking his
hand, she pressed it to her lips; and they saw each
other no more. Mr. Langton and his daughter, shortly
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after, returned to the sea-port, which, for several succeeding
years, was their residence.
After Ellen's departure, Fanshawe returned to his
studies with the same absorbing ardour, that had formerly
characterized him. His face was as seldom seen among
the young and gay;—the pure breeze and the blessed
sun-shine as seldom refreshed his pale and weary brow;
and his lamp burned as constantly from the first shade of
evening, till the grey morning light began to dim its
beams. Nor did he, as weak men will, treasure up his
love in a hidden chamber of his breast. He was in
reality the thoughtful and earnest student that he seemed.
He had exerted the whole might of his spirit over
itself,—and he was a conqueror. Perhaps, indeed, a
summer breeze of sad and gentle thoughts would sometimes
visit him; but, in these brief memories of his love,
he did not wish that it should be revived, or mourn over
its event.
There were many who felt an interest in Fanshawe;
but the influence of none could prevail upon him to lay
aside the habits, mental and physical, by which he was
bringing himself to the grave. His passage thither was
consequently rapid,—terminating just as he reached his
twentieth year. His fellow students erected to his
memory a monument of rough-hewn granite, with a
white marble slab, for the inscription. This was
borrowed from the grave of Nathanael Mather, whom,
in his almost insane eagerness for knowledge and in his
early death, Fanshawe resembled.
THE ASHES OF A HARD STUDENT AND A GOOD SCHOLAR.
Many tears were shed over his grave; but the thoughtful
and the wise, though turf never covered a nobler
heart, could not lament that it was so soon at rest. He
left a world for which he was unfit; and we trust, that,
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[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
among the innumerable stars of heaven, there is one
where he has found happiness.
Of the other personages of this tale,—Hugh Crombie,
being exposed to no strong temptations, lived and died
an honest man. Concerning Doctor Melmoth, it is unnecessary
here to speak. The reader, if he have any
curiosity upon the subject, is referred to his life, which,
together with several sermons and other productions of
the Doctor, was published by his successor in the Presidency
of Harley College, about the year 1768.
It was not till four years after Fanshawe's death, that
Edward Walcott was united to Ellen Langton. Their
future lives were uncommonly happy. Ellen's gentle,
almost imperceptible, but powerful influence, drew her
husband away from the passions and pursuits that would
have interfered with domestic felicity; and he never regretted
the worldly distinction of which she thus deprived
him. Theirs was a long life of calm and quiet bliss;—
and what matters it, that, except in these pages, they
have left no name behind them?
ERRATA.
The author requests the reader's favourable construction of several
errors, chiefly of orthography and punctuation, which have escaped the
press. The following affect the sense.
Page 44, line 30, for `atmosphere of the Sun,' read `atmosphere of
an Inn.' Page 83, line 30, for `Gleardallen' read `Glumdalea. Page
90, line 14, for `fool' read `foe.' Page 96, line 13, for `pitting,' read
`jutting,' Page 128, line 26, for `continued' read `contrived.'
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