"At length, he cries, behold the fated spring!
Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest,
Dark rocks its crystal source o'ershadowing."
PSYCHE.
The tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, as will be recollected, after
being overtaken by Edward Walcott, was left with little apparent prospect
of aiding in the deliverance of Ellen Langton.
It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with which the student
pursued the chase, or to decide whether he was influenced and animated by
the same hopes of successful love that cheered his rival. That he was
conscious of such hopes, there is little reason to suppose; for the most
powerful minds are not always the best acquainted with their own feelings.
Had Fanshawe, moreover, acknowledged to himself the possibility of gaining
Ellen's affections, his generosity would have induced him to refrain from
her society before it was too late. He had read her character with
accuracy, and had seen how fit she was to love, and to be loved, by a man
who could find his happiness in the common occupations of the world; and
Fanshawe never deceived himself so far as to suppose that this would be
the case with him. Indeed, he often wondered at the passion with which
Ellen's simple loveliness of mind and person had inspired him, and which
seemed to be founded on the principle of contrariety, rather than of
sympathy. It was the yearning of a soul, formed by Nature in a peculiar
mould, for communion with those to whom it bore a resemblance, yet of whom
it was not. But there was no reason to suppose that Ellen, who differed
from the multitude only as being purer and better, would cast away her
affections on the one, of all who surrounded her, least fitted to make her
happy. Thus Fanshawe reasoned with himself, and of this he believed that
he was convinced. Yet ever and anon he found himself involved in a dream
of bliss, of which Ellen was to be the giver and the sharer. Then would he
rouse himself, and press upon his mind the chilling consciousness that it
was and could be but a dream. There was also another feeling, apparently
discordant with those which have been enumerated. It was a longing for
rest, for his old retirement, that came at intervals so powerfully upon
him, as he rode on, that his heart sickened of the active exertion on
which fate had thrust him.
After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Fanshawe continued his journey
with as much speed as was attainable by his wearied horse, but at a pace
infinitely too slow for his earnest thoughts. These had carried him far
away, leaving him only such a consciousness of his present situation as to
make diligent use of the spur, when a horse's tread at no great distance
struck upon his ear. He looked forward and behind; but, though a
considerable extent of the narrow, rocky, and grass-grown road was
visible, he was the only traveller there. Yet again he heard the sound,
which, he now discovered, proceeded from among the trees that lined the
roadside. Alighting, he entered the forest, with the intention, if the
steed proved to be disengaged, and superior to his own, of appropriating
him to his own use. He soon gained a view of the object he sought; but the
animal rendered a closer acquaintance unattainable, by immediately taking
to his heels. Fanshawe had, however, made a most interesting discovery;
for the horse was accoutred with a side-saddle; and who but Ellen Langton
could have been his rider? At this conclusion, though his perplexity was
thereby in no degree diminished, the student immediately arrived.
Returning to the road, and perceiving on the summit of the hill a cottage,
which he recognized as the one he had entered with Ellen and Edward
Walcott, he determined there to make inquiry respecting the objects of his
pursuit.
On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwelling, he saw that it was
not now so desolate of inmates as on his previous visit. In the single
inhabitable apartment were several elderly women, clad evidently in their
well-worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing a deep grievous
expression of countenance. Fanshawe was not long in deciding that death
was within the cottage, and that these aged females were of the class who
love the house of mourning, because to them it is a house of feasting. It
is a fact, disgusting and lamentable, that the disposition which Heaven,
for the best of purposes, has implanted in the female breast--to watch by
the sick and comfort the afflicted--frequently becomes depraved into an
odious love of scenes of pain and death and sorrow. Such women are like
the Ghouls of the Arabian Tales, whose feasting was among tombstones and
upon dead carcasses.
(It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case, that this disposition
to make a "joy of grief" extends to individuals of the other sex. But in
us it is even less excusable and more disgusting, because it is our nature
to shun the sick and afflicted; and, unless restrained by principles other
than we bring into the world with us, men might follow the example of many
animals in destroying the infirm of their own species. Indeed, instances
of this nature might be adduced among savage nations.) Sometimes, however,
from an original _lusus naturae_, or from the influence of
circumstances, a man becomes a haunter of death-beds, a tormentor of
afflicted hearts, and a follower of funerals. Such an abomination now
appeared before Fanshawe, and beckoned him into the cottage. He was
considerably beyond the middle age, rather corpulent, with a broad, fat,
tallow-complexioned countenance. The student obeyed his silent call, and
entered the room, through the open door of which he had been gazing.
He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed where she had so lately lain in
life, though dying, the yet uncoffined corpse of the aged woman, whose
death has been described. How frightful it seemed!--that fixed countenance
of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of muslin and fine linen, as if a
bride were decked for the marriage-chamber, as if death were a bridegroom,
and the coffin a bridal bed. Alas that the vanity of dress should extend
even to the grave!
The female who, as being the near and only relative of the deceased, was
supposed to stand in need of comfort, was surrounded by five or six of her
own sex. These continually poured into her ear the stale, trite maxims
which, where consolation is actually required, add torture insupportable
to the wounded heart. Their present object, however, conducted herself
with all due decorum, holding her handkerchief to her tearless eyes, and
answering with very grievous groans to the words of her comforters. Who
could have imagined that there was joy in her heart, because, since her
sister's death, there was but one remaining obstacle between herself and
the sole property of that wretched cottage?
While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene, a low, monotonous
voice was uttering some words in his ear, of the meaning of which his mind
did not immediately take note. He turned, and saw that the speaker was the
person who had invited him to enter.
"What is your pleasure with me, sir?" demanded the student.
"I make bold to ask," replied the man, "whether you would choose to
partake of some creature comfort, before joining in prayer with the family
and friends of our deceased sister?" As he spoke, he pointed to a table,
on which was a moderate-sized stone jug and two or three broken glasses;
for then, as now, there were few occasions of joy or grief on which ardent
spirits were not considered indispensable, to heighten the one or to
alleviate the other.
"I stand in no need of refreshment," answered Fanshawe; "and it is not my
intention to pray at present."
"I pray your pardon, reverend sir," rejoined the other; "but your face is
pale, and you look wearied. A drop from yonder vessel is needful to
recruit the outward man. And for the prayer, the sisters will expect it;
and their souls are longing for the outpouring of the Spirit. I was
intending to open my own mouth with such words as are given to my poor
ignorance, but"--
Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address, which proceeded on the
supposition, arising from his black dress and thoughtful countenance, that
he was a clergyman. But one of the females now approached him, and
intimated that the sister of the deceased was desirous of the benefit of
his conversation. He would have returned a negative to this request, but,
looking towards the afflicted woman, he saw her withdraw her handkerchief
from her eyes, and cast a brief but penetrating and most intelligent
glance upon him. He immediately expressed his readiness to offer such
consolation as might be in his power.
"And in the mean time," observed the lay-preacher, "I will give the
sisters to expect a word of prayer and exhortation, either from you or
from myself."
These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman, who was already at the
side of the mourner. The females withdrew out of ear-shot to give place to
a more legitimate comforter than themselves.
"What know you respecting my purpose?" inquired Fanshawe, bending towards
her.
The woman gave a groan--the usual result of all efforts at consolation--for
the edification of the company, and then replied in a whisper, which
reached only the ear for which it was intended. "I know whom you come to
seek: I can direct you to them. Speak low, for God's sake!" she continued,
observing that Fanshawe was about to utter an exclamation. She then
resumed her groans with greater zeal than before.
"Where--where are they?" asked the student, in a whisper which all his
efforts could scarcely keep below his breath. "I adjure you to tell me."
"And, if I should, how am I like to be bettered by it?" inquired the old
woman, her speech still preceded and followed by a groan.
"O God! The _auri sacra fames!_" thought Fanshawe with, a sickening
heart, looking at the motionless corpse upon the bed, and then at the
wretched being, whom the course of nature, in comparatively a moment of
time, would reduce to the same condition.
He whispered again, however, putting his purse into the hag's hand. "Take
this. Make your own terms when they are discovered. Only tell me where I
must seek them--and speedily, or it may be too late."
"I am a poor woman, and am afflicted," said she, taking the purse, unseen
by any who were in the room. "It is little that worldly goods can do for
me, and not long can I enjoy them." And here she was delivered of a louder
and a more heartfelt groan than ever. She then continued: "Follow the path
behind the cottage, that leads to the river-side. Walk along the foot of
the rock, and search for them near the water-spout. Keep a slow pace till
you are out of sight," she added, as the student started to his feet. The
guests of the cottage did not attempt to oppose Fanshawe's progress, when
they saw him take the path towards the forest, imagining, probably, that
he was retiring for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old woman
laughed behind the handkerchief with which she veiled her face.
"Take heed to your steps, boy," she muttered; "for they are leading you
whence you will not return. Death, too, for the slayer. Be it so."
Fanshawe, in the mean while, contrived to discover, and for a while to
retain, the narrow and winding path that led to the river-side. But it was
originally no more than a track, by which the cattle belonging to the
cottage went down to their watering-place, and by these four-footed
passengers it had long been deserted.
The fern-bushes, therefore, had grown over it; and in several places trees
of considerable size had shot up in the midst. These difficulties could
scarcely have been surmounted by the utmost caution; and as Fanshawe's
thoughts were too deeply fixed upon the end to pay a due regard to the
means, he soon became desperately bewildered both as to the locality of
the river and of the cottage. Had he known, however, in which direction to
seek the latter, he would not, probably, have turned back; not that he was
infected by any chivalrous desire to finish the adventure alone, but
because he would expect little assistance from those he had left there.
Yet he could not but wonder--though he had not in his first eagerness
taken notice of it--at the anxiety of the old woman that he should
proceed singly, and without the knowledge of her guests, on the search. He
nevertheless continued to wander on,--pausing often to listen for the rush
of the river, and then starting forward with fresh rapidity, to rid
himself of the sting of his own thoughts, which became painfully intense
when undisturbed by bodily motion. His way was now frequently interrupted
by rocks, that thrust their huge gray heads from the ground, compelling
him to turn aside, and thus depriving him, fortunately, perhaps, of all
remaining idea of the direction he had intended to pursue.
Thus he went on, his head turned back, and taking little heed to his
footsteps, when, perceiving that he trod upon a smooth, level rock, he
looked forward, and found himself almost on the utmost verge of a
precipice.
After the throbbing of the heart that followed this narrow escape had
subsided, he stood gazing down where the sunbeams slept so pleasantly at
the roots of the tall old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon a
level. Suddenly he seemed to hear voices--one well-remembered
voice--ascending from beneath; and, approaching to the edge of the cliff,
he saw at its base the two whom he sought.
He saw and interpreted Ellen's look and attitude of entreaty, though the
words with which she sought to soften the ruthless heart of her guide
became inaudible ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. He felt
that Heaven had sent him thither, at the moment of her utmost need, to be
the preserver of all that was dear to him; and he paused only to consider
the mode in which her deliverance was to be effected. Life he would have
laid down willingly, exultingly: his only care was, that the sacrifice
should not be in vain.
At length, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted a small fragment of
rock, and threw it down the cliff. It struck so near the pair, that it
immediately drew the attention of both.
When the betrayer, at the instant in which he had almost defied the power
of the Omnipotent to bring help to Ellen, became aware of Fanshawe's
presence, his hardihood failed him for a time, and his knees actually
tottered beneath him. There was something awful, to his apprehension, in
the slight form that stood so far above him, like a being from another
sphere, looking down upon his wickedness. But his half-superstitious dread
endured only a moment's space; and then, mustering the courage that in a
thousand dangers had not deserted him, he prepared to revenge the
intrusion by which Fanshawe had a second time interrupted his designs.
"By Heaven, I will cast him down at her feet!" he muttered through his
closed teeth. "There shall be no form nor likeness of man left in him.
Then let him rise up, if he is able, and defend her."
Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard in his eager hatred and desire
for vengeance, he began a desperate attempt to ascend the cliff. The space
which only had hitherto been deemed accessible was quickly passed; and in
a moment more he was half-way up the precipice, clinging to trees, shrubs,
and projecting portions of the rock, and escaping through hazards which
seemed to menace inevitable destruction.
Fanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, deemed that every step would
be his last; but when he perceived that more than half, and apparently the
most difficult part, of the ascent was surmounted, his opinion changed.
His courage, however, did not fail him as the moment of need drew nigh.
His spirits rose buoyantly; his limbs seemed to grow firm and strong; and
he stood on the edge of the precipice, prepared for the death-struggle
which would follow the success of his enemy's attempt.
But that attempt was not successful. When within a few feet of the summit,
the adventurer grasped at a twig too slenderly rooted to sustain his
weight. It gave way in his hand, and he fell backward down the precipice.
His head struck against the less perpendicular part of the rock, whence
the body rolled heavily down to the detached fragment, of which mention
has heretofore been made. There was no life left in him. With all the
passions of hell alive in his heart, he had met the fate that he intended
for Fanshawe.
The student paused not then to shudder at the sudden and awful overthrow
of his enemy; for he saw that Ellen lay motionless at the foot of the
cliff. She had indeed fainted at the moment she became aware of her
deliverer's presence; and no stronger proof could she have given of her
firm reliance upon his protection.
Fanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of which he had just received so
fearful an evidence, from attempting to descend to her assistance; and,
whether owing to his advantage in lightness of frame, or to superior
caution, he arrived safely at the base of the precipice.
He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, and, resting her head
against his shoulder, gazed on her cheek of lily paleness with a joy, a
triumph, that rose almost to madness. It contained no mixture of hope; it
had no reference to the future: it was the perfect bliss of a moment,--an
insulated point of happiness. He bent over her, and pressed a kiss--the
first, and he knew it would be the last--on her pale lips; then, bearing
her to the fountain, he sprinkled its waters profusely over her face,
neck, and bosom. She at length opened her eyes, slowly and heavily; but
her mind was evidently wandering, till Fanshawe spoke.
"Fear not, Ellen. You are safe," he said.
At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was thrown over his shoulder,
involuntarily tightened its embrace, telling him, by that mute motion,
with how firm a trust she confided in him. But, as a fuller sense of her
situation returned, she raised herself to her feet, though still retaining
the support of his arm. It was singular, that, although her insensibility
had commenced before the fall of her guide, she turned away her eyes, as
if instinctively, from the spot where the mangled body lay; nor did she
inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her deliverance.
"Let us begone from this place," she said in faint, low accents, and with
an inward shudder.
They walked along the precipice, seeking some passage by which they might
gain its summit, and at length arrived at that by which Ellen and her
guide had descended. Chance--for neither Ellen nor Fanshawe could have
discovered the path--led them, after but little wandering, to the cottage.
A messenger was sent forward to the town to inform Dr. Melmoth of the
recovery of his ward; and the intelligence thus received had interrupted
Edward Walcott's conversation with the seaman.
It would have been impossible, in the mangled remains of Ellen's guide, to
discover the son of the Widow Butler, except from the evidence of her
sister, who became, by his death, the sole inheritrix of the cottage. The
history of this evil and unfortunate man must be comprised within very
narrow limits. A harsh father, and his own untamable disposition, had
driven him from home in his boyhood; and chance had made him the temporary
companion of Hugh Crombie. After two years of wandering, when in a foreign
country and in circumstances of utmost need, he attracted the notice of
Mr. Langton. The merchant took his young countryman under his protection,
afforded him advantages of education, and, as his capacity was above
mediocrity, gradually trusted him in many affairs of importance. During
this period, there was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On the
contrary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Langton's interest, and a respect
for his person, that proved his strong sense of the benefits he had
received. But he unfortunately fell into certain youthful indiscretions,
which, if not entirely pardonable, might have been palliated by many
considerations that would have occurred to a merciful man. Mr. Langton's
justice, however, was seldom tempered by mercy; and, on this occasion, he
shut the door of repentance against his erring _protégé_, and left
him in a situation not less desperate than that from which he had relieved
him. The goodness and the nobleness, of which his heart was not destitute,
turned, from that time, wholly to evil; and he became irrecoverably ruined
and irreclaimably depraved. His wandering life had led him, shortly before
the period of this tale, to his native country. Here the erroneous
intelligence of Mr. Langton's death had reached him, and suggested the
scheme, which circumstances seemed to render practicable, but the fatal
termination of which has been related.
The body was buried where it had fallen, close by the huge, gray,
moss-grown fragment of rock,--a monument on which centuries can work little
change. The eighty years that have elapsed since the death of the widow's
son have, however, been sufficient to obliterate an inscription, which
some one was at the pains to cut in the smooth surface of the stone.
Traces of letters are still discernible; but the writer's many efforts
could never discover a connected meaning. The grave, also, is overgrown
with fern-bushes, and sunk to a level with the surrounding soil. But the
legend, though my version of it may be forgotten, will long be
traditionary in that lonely spot, and give to the rock and the precipice
and the fountain an interest thrilling to the bosom of the romantic
wanderer.