Fanshawe
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Fanshawe
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"Young gentleman, this is not well," he said. "By what authority have you
absented yourself from the walls of Alma Mater during term-time?"
"I conceived that it was unnecessary to ask leave at such a conjuncture,
and when the head of the institution was himself in the saddle," replied
Edward.
"It was a fault, it was a fault," said Dr. Melmoth, shaking his head;
"but, in consideration of the motive, I may pass it over. And now, my dear
Edward, I advise that we continue our journey together, as your youth and
inexperience will stand in need of the wisdom of my gray head. Nay, I pray
you lay not the lash to your steed. You have ridden fast and far; and a
slower pace is requisite for a season."
And, in order to keep up with his young companion, the doctor smote his
own gray nag; which unhappy beast, wondering what strange concatenation of
events had procured him such treatment, endeavored to obey his master's
wishes. Edward had sufficient compassion for Dr. Melmoth (especially as
his own horse now exhibited signs of weariness) to moderate his pace to
one attainable by the former.
"Alas, youth! these are strange times," observed the president, "when a
doctor of divinity and an under-graduate set forth, like a knight-errant
and his squire, in search of a stray damsel. Methinks I am an epitome of
the church militant, or a new species of polemical divinity. Pray Heaven,
however, there be no encounter in store for us; for I utterly forgot to
provide myself with weapons."
"I took some thought for that matter, reverend knight," replied Edward,
whose imagination was highly tickled by Dr. Melmoth's chivalrous
comparison.
"Ay, I see that you have girded on a sword," said the divine. "But
wherewith shall I defend myself, my hand being empty, except of this
golden headed staff, the gift of Mr. Langton?"
"One of these, if you will accept it," answered Edward, exhibiting a brace
of pistols, "will serve to begin the conflict, before you join the battle
hand to hand."
"Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling with that deadly instrument,
since I know not accurately from which end proceeds the bullet," said Dr.
Melmoth. "But were it not better, seeing we are so well provided with
artillery, to betake ourselves, in the event of an encounter, to some
stone-wall or other place of strength?"
"If I may presume to advise," said the squire, "you, as being most valiant
and experienced, should ride forward, lance in hand (your long staff
serving for a lance), while I annoy the enemy from afar."
"Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax," interrupted Dr. Melmoth, "or
David with his stone and sling. No, no, young man! I have left unfinished
in my study a learned treatise, important not only to the present age, but
to posterity, for whose sakes I must take heed to my safety.--But, lo! who
ride yonder?" he exclaimed, in manifest alarm, pointing to some horsemen
upon the brow of a hill at a short distance before them.
"Fear not, gallant leader," said Edward Walcott, who had already
discovered the objects of the doctor's terror. "They are men of peace, as
we shall shortly see. The foremost is somewhere near your own years, and
rides like a grave, substantial citizen,--though what he does here, I know
not. Behind come two servants, men likewise of sober age and pacific
appearance."
"Truly your eyes are better than mine own. Of a verity, you are in the
right," acquiesced Dr. Melmoth, recovering his usual quantum of
intrepidity. "We will ride forward courageously, as those who, in a just
cause, fear neither death nor bonds."
The reverend knight-errant and his squire, at the time of discovering the
three horsemen, were within a very short distance of the town, which was,
however, concealed from their view by the hill that the strangers were
descending. The road from Harley College, through almost its whole extent,
had been rough and wild, and the country thin of population; but now,
standing frequent, amid fertile fields on each side of the way, were neat
little cottages, from which groups of white-headed children rushed forth
to gaze upon the travellers. The three strangers, as well as the doctor
and Edward, were surrounded, as they approached each other, by a crowd of
this kind, plying their little bare legs most pertinaciously in order to
keep pace with the horses.
As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost rider, his grave aspect and
stately demeanor struck him with involuntary respect. There were deep
lines of thought across his brow; and his calm yet bright gray eye
betokened a steadfast soul. There was also an air of conscious importance,
even in the manner in which the stranger sat his horse, which a man's good
opinion of himself, unassisted by the concurrence of the world in general,
seldom bestows. The two servants rode at a respectable distance in the
rear; and the heavy portmanteaus at their backs intimated that the party
had journeyed from afar. Dr. Melmoth endeavored to assume the dignity that
became him as the head of Harley College; and with a gentle stroke of his
staff upon his wearied steed and a grave nod to the principal stranger,
was about to commence the ascent of the hill at the foot of which they
were. The gentleman, however, made a halt.
"Dr. Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet you?" he exclaimed in accents
expressive of as much surprise and pleasure as were consistent with his
staid demeanor. "Have you, then, forgotten your old friend?"
"Mr. Langton! Can it be?" said the doctor, after looking him in the face a
moment. "Yes, it is my old friend indeed: welcome, welcome! though you
come at an unfortunate time."
"What say you? How is my child? Ellen, I trust, is well?" cried Mr.
Langton, a father's anxiety overcoming the coldness and reserve that were
natural to him, or that long habit had made a second nature.
"She is well in health. She was so, at least, last night," replied Dr.
Melmoth unable to meet the eye of his friend. "But--but I have been a
careless shepherd; and the lamb has strayed from the fold while I slept."
Edward Walcott, who was a deeply interested observer of this scene, had
anticipated that a burst of passionate grief would follow the disclosure.
He was, however, altogether mistaken. There was a momentary convulsion of
Mr. Langton's strong features, as quick to come and go as a flash of
lightning; and then his countenance was as composed--though, perhaps, a
little sterner--as before. He seemed about to inquire into the
particulars of what so nearly concerned him, but changed his purpose on
observing the crowd of children, who, with one or two of their parents,
were endeavoring to catch the words, that passed between the doctor and
himself.
"I will turn back with you to the village," he said in a steady voice;
"and at your leisure I shall desire to hear the particulars of this
unfortunate affair."
He wheeled his horse accordingly, and, side by side with Dr. Melmoth,
began to ascend the hill. On reaching the summit, the little country town
lay before them, presenting a cheerful and busy spectacle. It consisted of
one long, regular street, extending parallel to, and at a short distance
from, the river; which here, enlarged by a junction with another stream,
became navigable, not indeed for vessels of burden, but for rafts of
lumber and boats of considerable size. The houses, with peaked roofs and
jutting stories, stood at wide intervals along the street; and the
commercial character of the place was manifested by the shop door and
windows that occupied the front of almost every dwelling. One or two
mansions, however, surrounded by trees, and standing back at a haughty
distance from the road, were evidently the abodes of the aristocracy of
the village. It was not difficult to distinguish the owners of these--
self-important personages, with canes and well-powdered periwigs--among
the crowd of meaner men who bestowed their attention upon Dr. Melmoth and
his friend as they rode by. The town being the nearest mart of a large
extent of back country, there are many rough farmers and woodsmen, to whom
the cavalcade was an object of curiosity and admiration. The former
feeling, indeed, was general throughout the village. The shop-keepers left
their customers, and looked forth from the doors; the female portion of
the community thrust their heads from the windows; and the people in the
street formed a lane through which, with all eyes concentrated upon them,
the party rode onward to the tavern. The general aptitude that pervades
the populace of a small country town to meddle with affairs not
legitimately concerning them was increased, on this occasion, by the
sudden return of Mr. Langton after passing through the village. Many
conjectures were afloat respecting the cause of this retrograde movement;
and, by degrees, something like the truth, though much distorted, spread
generally among the crowd, communicated, probably, from Mr. Langton's
servants. Edward Walcott, incensed at the uncourteous curiosity of which
he, as well as his companions, was the object, felt a frequent impulse
(though, fortunately for himself, resisted) to make use of his riding-
switch in clearing a passage.
On arriving at the tavern, Dr. Melmoth recounted to his friend the little
he knew beyond the bare fact of Ellen's disappearance. Had Edward Walcott
been called to their conference, he might, by disclosing the adventure of
the angler, have thrown a portion of light upon the affair; but, since his
first introduction, the cold and stately merchant had honored him with no
sort of notice.
Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at the sudden appearance of
Ellen's father, and was little inclined to cooperate in any measures that
he might adopt for her recovery. It was his wish to pursue the chase on
his own responsibility, and as his own wisdom dictated: he chose to be an
independent ally, rather than a subordinate assistant. But, as a step
preliminary to his proceedings of every other kind, he found it absolutely
necessary, having journeyed far, and fasting, to call upon the landlord
for a supply of food. The viands that were set before him were homely but
abundant; nor were Edward's griefs and perplexities so absorbing as to
overcome the appetite of youth and health.
Dr. Melmoth and Mr. Langton, after a short private conversation, had
summoned the landlord, in the hope of obtaining some clew to the
development of the mystery. But no young lady, nor any stranger answering
to the description the doctor had received from Hugh Crombie (which was
indeed a false one), had been seen to pass through the village since
daybreak. Here, therefore, the friends were entirely at a loss in what
direction to continue the pursuit. The village was the focus of several
roads, diverging to widely distant portions of the country; and which of
these the fugitives had taken, it was impossible to determine. One point,
however, might be considered certain,--that the village was the first
stage of their flight; for it commanded the only outlet from the valley,
except a rugged path among the hills, utterly impassable by horse. In this
dilemma, expresses were sent by each of the different roads; and poor
Ellen's imprudence--the tale nowise decreasing as it rolled along--became
known to a wide extent of country. Having thus done everything in his
power to recover his daughter, the merchant exhibited a composure which
Dr. Melmoth admired, but could not equal. His own mind, however, was in a
far more comfortable state than when the responsibility of the pursuit had
rested upon himself.
Edward Walcott, in the mean time, had employed but a very few moments in
satisfying his hunger; after which his active intellect alternately formed
and relinquished a thousand plans for the recovery of Ellen. Fanshawe's
observation, that her flight must have commenced after the subsiding of
the storm, recurred to him. On inquiry, he was informed that the violence
of the rain had continued, with a few momentary intermissions, till near
daylight. The fugitives must, therefore, have passed through the village
long after its inhabitants were abroad; and how, without the gift of
invisibility, they had contrived to elude notice, Edward could not
conceive.
"Fifty years ago," thought Edward, "my sweet Ellen would have been deemed
a witch for this trackless journey. Truly, I could wish I were a wizard,
that I might bestride a broomstick, and follow her."
While the young man, involved in these perplexing thoughts, looked forth
from the open window of the apartment, his attention was drawn to an
individual, evidently of a different, though not of a higher, class than
the countrymen among whom he stood. Edward now recollected that he had
noticed his rough dark face among the most earnest of those who had
watched the arrival of the party. He had then taken him for one of the
boatmen, of whom there were many in the village, and who had much of a
sailor-like dress and appearance. A second and more attentive observation,
however, convinced Edward that this man's life had not been spent upon
fresh water; and, had any stronger evidence than the nameless marks which
the ocean impresses upon its sons been necessary, it would have been found
in his mode of locomotion. While Edward was observing him, he beat slowly
up to one of Mr. Langton's servants who was standing near the door of the
inn. He seemed to question the man with affected carelessness; but his
countenance was dark and perplexed when he turned to mingle again with the
crowd. Edward lost no time in ascertaining from the servant the nature of
his inquiries. They had related to the elopement of Mr. Langton's
daughter, which was, indeed, the prevailing, if not the sole, subject of
conversation in the village.
The grounds for supposing that this man was in any way connected with the
angler were, perhaps, very slight; yet, in the perplexity of the whole
affair, they induced Edward to resolve to get at the heart of his mystery.
To attain this end, he took the most direct method,--by applying to the
man himself.
He had now retired apart from the throng and bustle of the village, and
was seated upon a condemned boat, that was drawn up to rot upon the banks
of the river. His arms were folded, and his hat drawn over his brows. The
lower part of his face, which alone was visible, evinced gloom and
depression, as did also the deep sighs, which, because he thought no one
was near him, he did not attempt to restrain.
"Friend, I must speak with you," said Edward Walcott, laying his hand upon
his shoulder, after contemplating the man a moment, himself unseen.
He started at once from his abstraction and his seat, apparently expecting
violence, and prepared to resist it; but, perceiving the youthful and
solitary intruder upon his privacy, he composed his features with much
quickness.
"What would you with me?" he asked.
"They tarry long,--or you have kept a careless watch," said Edward,
speaking at a venture.
For a moment, there seemed a probability of obtaining such a reply to this
observation as the youth had intended to elicit. If any trust could be put
in the language of the stranger's countenance, a set of words different
from those to which he subsequently gave utterance had risen to his lips.
But he seemed naturally slow of speech; and this defect was now, as is
frequently the case, advantageous in giving him space for reflection.
"Look you, youngster: crack no jokes on me," he at length said,
contemptuously. "Away! back whence you came, or"--And he slightly waved a
small rattan that he held in his right hand.
Edward's eyes sparkled, and his color rose. "You must change this tone,
fellow, and that speedily," he observed. "I order you to lower your hand,
and answer the questions that I shall put to you."
The man gazed dubiously at him, but finally adopted a more conciliatory
mode of speech.
"Well, master; and what is your business with me?" he inquired. "I am a
boatman out of employ. Any commands in my line?"
"Pshaw! I know you, my good friend, and you cannot deceive me," replied
Edward Walcott. "We are private here," he continued, looking around. "I
have no desire or intention to do you harm; and, if you act according to
my directions, you shall have no cause to repent it."
"And what if I refuse to put myself under your orders?" inquired the man.
"You are but a young captain for such an old hulk as mine."
"The ill consequences of a refusal would all be on your own side," replied
Edward. "I shall, in that case, deliver you up to justice: if I have not
the means of capturing you myself," he continued, observing the seaman's
eye to wander rather scornfully over his youthful and slender figure,
"there are hundreds within call whom it will be in vain to resist.
Besides, it requires little strength to use this," he added, laying his
hand on a pistol.
"If that were all, I could suit you there, my lad," muttered the stranger.
He continued aloud, "Well, what is your will with me? D----d ungenteel
treatment this! But put your questions; and, to oblige you, I may answer
them,--if so be that I know anything of the matter."
"You will do wisely," observed the young man. "And now to business. What
reason have you to suppose that the persons for whom you watch are not
already beyond the village?" The seaman paused long before he answered,
and gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently endeavoring to ascertain from
his countenance the amount of his knowledge. This he probably overrated,
but, nevertheless, hazarded a falsehood.
"I doubt not they passed before midnight," he said. "I warrant you they
are many a league towards the sea-coast, ere this."
"You have kept watch, then, since midnight?" asked Edward.
"Ay, that have I! And a dark and rough one it was," answered the stranger.
"And you are certain that, if they passed at all, it must have been before
that hour?"
"I kept my walk across the road till the village was all astir," said the
seaman. "They could not have missed me. So, you see, your best way is to
give chase; for they have a long start of you, and you have no time to
lose."
"Your information is sufficient, my good friend," said Edward, with a
smile. "I have reason to know that they did not commence their flight
before midnight. You have made it evident that they have not passed since:
ergo, they have not passed at all,--an indisputable syllogism. And now
will I retrace my footsteps."
"Stay, young man," said the stranger, placing himself full in Edward's way
as he was about to hasten to the inn. "You have drawn me in to betray my
comrade; but, before you leave this place, you must answer a question or
two of mine. Do you mean to take the law with you? or will you right your
wrongs, if you have any, with your own right hand?"
"It is my intention to take the latter method. But, if I choose the
former, what then?" demanded Edward. "Nay, nothing: only you or I might
not have gone hence alive," replied the stranger. "But as you say he shall
have fair play"--
"On my word, friend," interrupted the young man, "I fear your intelligence
has come too late to do either good or harm. Look towards the inn: my
companions are getting to horse, and, my life on it, they know whither to
ride."
So saying, he hastened away, followed by the stranger. It was indeed
evident that news of some kind or other had reached the village. The
people were gathered in groups, conversing eagerly; and the pale cheeks,
uplifted eyebrows, and outspread hands of some of the female sex filled
Edward's mind with undefined but intolerable apprehensions. He forced his
way to Dr. Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seizing his bridle,
peremptorily demanded if he knew aught of Ellen Langton.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Full many a miserable year hath passed:
She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead:
And many a change her varied life hath known;
But her heart none."
MATURIN.
Since her interview with the angler, which was interrupted by the
appearance of Fanshawe, Ellen Langton's hitherto calm and peaceful mind
had been in a state of insufferable doubt and dismay. She was imperatively
called upon--at least, she so conceived--to break through the rules which
nature and education impose upon her sex, to quit the protection of those
whose desire for her welfare was true and strong, and to trust herself,
for what purpose she scarcely knew, to a stranger, from whom the
instinctive purity of her mind would involuntarily have shrunk, under
whatever circumstances she had met him. The letter which she had received
from the hands of the angler had seemed to her inexperience to prove
beyond a doubt that the bearer was the friend of her father, and
authorized by him, if her duty and affection were stronger than her fears,
to guide her to his retreat. The letter spoke vaguely of losses and
misfortunes, and of a necessity for concealment on her father's part, and
secrecy on hers; and, to the credit of Ellen's not very romantic
understanding, it must be acknowledged that the mystery of the plot had
nearly prevented its success. She did not, indeed, doubt that the letter
was from her father's hand; for every line and stroke, and even many of
its phrases, were familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that his
misfortunes, of what nature soever they were, had affected his intellect,
and that, under such an influence, he had commanded her to take a step
which nothing less than such a command could justify. Ellen did not,
however, remain long in this opinion; for when she reperused the letter,
and considered the firm, regular characters, and the style,--calm and
cold, even in requesting such a sacrifice,--she felt that there was
nothing like insanity here. In fine, she came gradually to the belief that
there were strong reasons, though incomprehensible by her, for the secrecy
that her father had enjoined.
Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay plain before her. Her
affection for Mr. Langton was not, indeed,--nor was it possible,--so
strong as that she would have felt for a parent who had watched over her
from her infancy. Neither was the conception she had unavoidably formed of
his character such as to promise that in him she would find an equivalent
for all she must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle nature and loving
heart, which otherwise would have rejoiced in a new object of affection,
now shrank with something like dread from the idea of meeting her father,
--stately, cold, and stern as she could not but imagine him. A sense of
duty was therefore Ellen's only support in resolving to tread the dark
path that lay before her.
Had there been any person of her own sex in whom Ellen felt confidence,
there is little doubt that she would so far have disobeyed her father's
letter as to communicate its contents, and take counsel as to her
proceedings. But Mrs. Melmoth was the only female--excepting, indeed, the
maid-servant--to whom it was possible to make the communication; and,
though Ellen at first thought of such a step, her timidity, and her
knowledge of the lady's character, did not permit her to venture upon it.
She next reviewed her acquaintances of the other sex; and Dr. Melmoth
first presented himself, as in every respect but one, an unexceptionable
confidant. But the single exception was equivalent to many. The maiden,
with the highest opinion of the doctor's learning and talents, had
sufficient penetration to know, that, in the ways of the world, she was
herself the better skilled of the two. For a moment she thought of Edward
Walcott; but he was light and wild, and, which her delicacy made an
insurmountable objection, there was an untold love between them. Her
thoughts finally centred on Fanshawe. In his judgment, young and
inexperienced though he was, she would have placed a firm trust; and his
zeal, from whatever cause it arose, she could not doubt.
If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, an opportunity had
occurred for consulting him, she would, in all probability, have taken
advantage of it. But the terms on which they had parted the preceding
evening had afforded him no reason to hope for her confidence; and he felt
that there were others who had a better right to it than himself. He did
not, therefore, throw himself in her way; and poor Ellen was consequently
left without an adviser.
The determination that resulted from her own unassisted wisdom has been
seen. When discovered by Dr. Melmoth at Hugh Crombie's inn, she was wholly
prepared for flight, and, but for the intervention of the storm, would,
ere then, have been far away.
The firmness of resolve that had impelled a timid maiden upon such a step
was not likely to be broken by one defeat; and Ellen, accordingly,
confident that the stranger would make a second attempt, determined that
no effort on her part should be wanting to its success. On reaching her
chamber, therefore, instead of retiring to rest (of which, from her
sleepless thoughts of the preceding night, she stood greatly in need), she
sat watching for the abatement of the storm. Her meditations were now
calmer than at any time since her first meeting with the angler. She felt
as if her fate was decided. The stain had fallen upon her reputation: she
was no longer the same pure being in the opinion of those whose
approbation she most valued.
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