"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.
"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.