Fanshawe
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Fanshawe
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"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 almost audible, "ship bottom upward,
discovered by the name on her stern to 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, augured 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."
Dr. 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, Esq., had taken passage for his native country,
after an absence of many years."
"Our poor Ellen, his orphan child!" said Dr. 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 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, Dr. 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
handwriting 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 staircase,
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.
"You have not told her the bad news, I trust?" cried Dr. 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 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."
Dr. 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, Dr. 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 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,
Dr. 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 mean time, the intelligence of Ellen's disappearance circulated
rapidly, and soon sent forth hunters more fit to follow the chase than Dr.
Melmoth.
CHAPTER VII.
"There was racing and chasing o'er Cannobie Lee."
WALTER SCOTT.
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 further 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 Sunbeams of a
glorious morning were now peeping into his chamber.
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
mean time, 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
Glumdalia, in the tragedy of "Tom Thumb." Her features were as excellent
as her form, appearing to have been rough-hewn with a broadaxe, and left
unpolished. The other was a short, squat figure, about two thirds the
height, and three times the circumference, 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 Dr. 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.
"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."
"Dr. 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.
"Dr. 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.
"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 kept 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 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 trusts no man further than is
needful, and I ask no unnecessary questions."
The hostler 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, 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 gill 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 raindrops 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 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 passed?"
"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 further information at the town, we
shall hardly know which way to continue the pursuit."
"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, nothing 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 foe 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 ardor; 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 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. Dr. 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 recognizing Edward Walcott.
In the whole course of his life, Dr. 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 him--was a substitute not to be despised; and it was
singular and rather ludicrous to observe how the gray-haired 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.
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