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.
“Full many a miserable year hath
passed:
She knows him as one dead, or worse than
dead:
And many a change her varied life hath
known;
But her heart none.”
MATURIN.
Since her interview with the angler, which was interrupted
by the appearance of Fanshawe, Ellen Langton’s
hitherto calm and peaceful mind had been in a state
of insufferable doubt and dismay. She was imperatively
called upon—at least, she so conceived—to
break through the rules which nature and education
impose upon her sex, to quit the protection of those
whose desire for her welfare was true and strong, and
to trust herself, for what purpose she scarcely knew,
to a stranger, from whom the instinctive purity of
her mind would involuntarily have shrunk, under whatever
circumstances she had met him. The letter which
she had received from the hands of the angler had
seemed to her inexperience to prove beyond a doubt
that the bearer was the friend of her father, and
authorized by him, if her duty and affection were stronger
than her fears, to guide her to his retreat.
The letter spoke vaguely of losses and misfortunes,
and of a necessity for concealment on her father’s
part, and secrecy on hers; and, to the credit of Ellen’s
not very romantic understanding, it must be acknowledged
that the mystery of the plot had nearly prevented
its success. She did not, indeed, doubt that the
letter was from her father’s hand; for every
line and stroke, and even many of its phrases, were
familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that his
misfortunes, of what nature soever they were, had affected
his intellect, and that, under such an influence,
he had commanded her to take a step which nothing
less than such a command could justify. Ellen
did not, however, remain long in this opinion; for
when she reperused the letter, and considered the
firm, regular characters, and the style,—calm
and cold, even in requesting such a sacrifice,—she
felt that there was nothing like insanity here.
In fine, she came gradually to the belief that there
were strong reasons, though incomprehensible by her,
for the secrecy that her father had enjoined.
