Fanshawe

N >> Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Fanshawe

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"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 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 erelong. Dr. 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 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 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 for 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 squalid 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 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 visitors; 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 footsteps 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.

"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 lighted 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 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 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 Dr. 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 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?

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 wayside 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 taking 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.

"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 toward 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.

"There, Ellen, he has captivated your _protege_, 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 seaport
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 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 learned 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 leave 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, 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 eyes 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. Their walk towards Dr. 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 Dr. 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, 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.

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