Fanshawe
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Fanshawe
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The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, alighted, and gave his horse
to the ragged hostler. 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 frequent 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 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 hostler, in the performance of another part of his duty, now appeared,
bearing a measure of the liquor that 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 steadfastly on Hugh
Crombie. "I could wish, my old acquaintance," he said, "that your lot had
been cast anywhere 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 further. 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.
"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,
it was beyond your power. I had taken my resolution, and you did but show
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 castaway," exclaimed Hugh Crombie.
The landlord's pathos, like all pathos that flows from the winecup, 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."
"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 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 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 cooperation. 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."
CHAPTER V
"A naughty night to swim in."--SHAKESPEARE.
The evening of the day succeeding the adventure of the angler was dark
and tempestuous. The rain descended almost in a continuous sheet; and
occasional powerful gusts of wind drove it hard against the northeastern
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 dullness 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
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 Dr.
Melmoth's, expecting that, by a smile of more than common brightness, she
would make amends to his wounded feelings; such having been her usual mode
of reparation in the few instances of disagreement that had occurred
between them. But he was disappointed. 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 would 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 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 slipshod 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 anything 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
passageway is 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 everything
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 passageway; 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 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 applications 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 mysterious 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 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--
Oh 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 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."
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