“There was racing1 and chasing o’er Cannobie Lee.”
WALTER SCOTT.
When Edward Walcott awoke the next morning from his deep slumber2, his first consciousness was of a heavy weight upon his mind, the cause of which he was unable immediately to recollect4. 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 attained6 to an uncertain recollection of a scene of madness and violence, followed, as he at first thought, by a duel7. 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 prudent9 as it would unquestionably have been) to give up the chance of avenging10 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 apprehension11 was, that the appointed time had already elapsed; for the early Sunbeams of a glorious morning were now peeping into his chamber12.
More than once, during the progress of dressing13, 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 tormented14 by a raging thirst, that seemed to have absorbed all the moisture of his throat and stomach; and, in his present agitation15, 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, throbbed16 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 degradation17 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 fully18 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 pertaining19 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, squat20 figure, about two thirds the height, and three times the circumference21, of ordinary females. Her hair was gray, her complexion22 of a deep yellow; and her most remarkable23 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 compassion25 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 rosy26 a lass as you could set eyes on.”
“Ah! has she gone?” said Edward, recollecting27 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 raving28 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 tavern29 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 circuitous30 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 auditor31; and her voice faltered32 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 bumper33 of wine with an egg? or a glass of smooth, old, oily brandy, such as Dame34 Crombie and I keep for our own drinking? Come, that will do it, I know.”
“No, no! neither,” replied Edward, shuddering35 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 liking36 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 mingled37 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 nag39, 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 wink40 of acknowledgment to what he saw were Edward’s suspicions. “The gray is a stout41 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 rattles42 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 mingling43 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 heartily45 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 mite46 of honesty.”
The morning was now one of the most bright and glorious that ever shone for mortals; and, under other circumstances, Edward’s bosom47 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 superfluous48 heat of an unclouded sun. In spite of the adventure, so mysterious and vexatious, in which he was engaged, Edward’s elastic49 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 tune50 of one of Hugh Crombie’s ballads51 to the motion of the horse. Nor did this reviving cheerfulness argue anything against his unwavering faith, and pure and fervent53 love for Ellen Langton. A sorrowful and repining disposition54 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 uncertainty55 itself, and the probable danger of the expedition, were not without their charm to a youthful and adventurous56 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 exhausted57 the poor animal, whose best pace was now but little beyond a walk. Edward drew his bridle58 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 distraction59 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 lighting60 upon some trace of them,” said Fanshawe. “Their flight must have commenced after the storm subsided61, 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 wrought62 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 gallant44 and manly63 youth, whom a lady might love, or a foe64 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 ardor65; but all his speed could not divest66 him of the idea that Fanshawe would finally overtake him, and attain5 the object of their mutual67 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 formerly68 the residence of the Widow Butler, who now lay dead within. He was at first inclined to alight, and make inquiries69 respecting the fugitives70; 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 beheld71, a few hundred yards before him, the Rev52. Dr. Melmoth. The worthy8 president was toiling72 onward73 at a rate unexampled in the history either of himself or his steed; the excellence74 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 conceal75 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 maturity76 in the solitude77 of these hills. The expedition, therefore, on which fate had now thrust him, was an entire deviation78 from the quiet pathway of all his former years; and he felt like one who sets forth79 over the broad ocean without chart or compass. The affair would undoubtedly80 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 motive81, 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. Nay82, I pray you lay not the lash83 to your steed. You have ridden fast and far; and a slower pace is requisite84 for a season.”
And, in order to keep up with his young companion, the doctor smote85 his own gray nag; which unhappy beast, wondering what strange concatenation of events had procured86 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 attainable87 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 squire88, in search of a stray damsel. Methinks I am an epitome89 of the church militant90, or a new species of polemical divinity. Pray Heaven, however, there be no encounter in store for us; for I utterly91 forgot to provide myself with weapons.”
“I took some thought for that matter, reverend knight,” replied Edward, whose imagination was highly tickled92 by Dr. Melmoth’s chivalrous93 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 brace94 of pistols, “will serve to begin the conflict, before you join the battle hand to hand.”
“Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling95 with that deadly instrument, since I know not accurately96 from which end proceeds the bullet,” said Dr. Melmoth. “But were it not better, seeing we are so well provided with artillery97, 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 valiant98 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 sling99. No, no, young man! I have left unfinished in my study a learned treatise100, important not only to the present age, but to posterity101, for whose sakes I must take heed102 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 verity103, you are in the right,” acquiesced104 Dr. Melmoth, recovering his usual quantum of intrepidity105. “We will ride forward courageously106, 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, concealed107 from their view by the hill that the strangers were descending108. The road from Harley College, through almost its whole extent, had been rough and wild, and the country thin of population; but now, standing24 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, plying109 their little bare legs most pertinaciously110 in order to keep pace with the horses.
As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost rider, his grave aspect and stately demeanor111 struck him with involuntary respect. There were deep lines of thought across his brow; and his calm yet bright gray eye betokened112 a steadfast113 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 concurrence114 of the world in general, seldom bestows115. 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 ascent116 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 expressive117 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 passionate118 grief would follow the disclosure. He was, however, altogether mistaken. There was a momentary119 convulsion of Mr. Langton’s strong features, as quick to come and go as a flash of lightning; and then his countenance120 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 ascend121 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 junction122 with another stream, became navigable, not indeed for vessels123 of burden, but for rafts of lumber3 and boats of considerable size. The houses, with peaked roofs and jutting124 stories, stood at wide intervals125 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 dwelling126. One or two mansions127, however, surrounded by trees, and standing back at a haughty128 distance from the road, were evidently the abodes129 of the aristocracy of the village. It was not difficult to distinguish the owners of these — self-important personages, with canes130 and well-powdered periwigs — among the crowd of meaner men who bestowed131 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 cavalcade132 was an object of curiosity and admiration133. 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 aptitude134 that pervades135 the populace of a small country town to meddle136 with affairs not legitimately137 concerning them was increased, on this occasion, by the sudden return of Mr. Langton after passing through the village. Many conjectures138 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, incensed139 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 disappearance140. 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 dictated141: he chose to be an independent ally, rather than a subordinate assistant. But, as a step preliminary to his proceedings142 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 viands143 that were set before him were homely144 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 entirely145 at a loss in what direction to continue the pursuit. The village was the focus of several roads, diverging146 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 outlet147 from the valley, except a rugged148 path among the hills, utterly impassable by horse. In this dilemma149, 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 relinquished150 a thousand plans for the recovery of Ellen. Fanshawe’s observation, that her flight must have commenced after the subsiding151 of the storm, recurred152 to him. On inquiry153, 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 contrived154 to elude155 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 drawn156 to an individual, evidently of a different, though not of a higher, class than the countrymen among whom he stood. Edward now recollected157 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 attentive158 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 locomotion159. 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 affected160 carelessness; but his countenance was dark and perplexed161 when he turned to mingle38 again with the crowd. Edward lost no time in ascertaining163 from the servant the nature of his inquiries. They had related to the elopement of Mr. Langton’s daughter, which was, indeed, the prevailing164, 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 retired165 apart from the throng166 and bustle167 of the village, and was seated upon a condemned168 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 contemplating169 the man a moment, himself unseen.
He started at once from his abstraction and his seat, apparently170 expecting violence, and prepared to resist it; but, perceiving the youthful and solitary171 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 elicit172. 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 utterance173 had risen to his lips. But he seemed naturally slow of speech; and this defect was now, as is frequently the case, advantageous174 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 rattan175 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 dubiously176 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 repent177 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 seaman178’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 ascertain162 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 syllogism179. And now will I retrace180 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, conversing181 eagerly; and the pale cheeks, uplifted eyebrows182, and outspread hands of some of the female sex filled Edward’s mind with undefined but intolerable apprehensions183. He forced his way to Dr. Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seizing his bridle, peremptorily184 demanded if he knew aught of Ellen Langton.
收听单词发音 |
1
racing
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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3
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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4
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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5
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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14
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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17
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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18
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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19
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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20
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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21
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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22
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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23
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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24
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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25
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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26
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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27
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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28
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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29
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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30
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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31
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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32
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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33
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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34
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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35
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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36
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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37
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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38
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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39
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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40
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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42
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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43
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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44
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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45
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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46
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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49
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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50
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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51
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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52
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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53
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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54
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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55
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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56
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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57
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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58
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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59
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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60
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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61
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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62
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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63
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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64
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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65
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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66
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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67
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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68
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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69
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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70
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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71
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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72
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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73
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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74
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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75
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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76
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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77
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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78
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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79
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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80
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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81
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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82
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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83
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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84
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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85
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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86
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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87
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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88
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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89
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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90
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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91
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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92
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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93
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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94
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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95
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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96
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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97
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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98
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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99
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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100
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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101
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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102
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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103
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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104
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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106
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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107
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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108
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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109
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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110
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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111
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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112
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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114
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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115
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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126
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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163
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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171
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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172
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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173
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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175
rattan
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| n.藤条，藤杖 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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177
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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178
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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179
syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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180
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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181
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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182
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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183
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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184
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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