Fanshawe

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But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and assumed first a dull purple,
and then a sullen gray 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 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 Dr. 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.

Dr. 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
Dr. 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?"

"Everything that a father could ask I would do," exclaimed Ellen, eagerly.
"Where is my father? and when shall I meet him?"

"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.

"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
eyelashes, 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 eyes 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-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
intrusted 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.

CHAPTER IV.

"The seeds by nature planted
Take a deep root in the 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.

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 everything 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 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 passed 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 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 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 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 thickset man, but with no superfluous flesh; his hair was of
iron-gray; he had a few wrinkles; his face was so deeply sunburnt, 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
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 symptoms,
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 seafaring 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 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's
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
inn, 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 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 west-ward, 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 hostler, 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.

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