Chapter 3

"And let the aspiring youth beware of love,--
Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late
When on his heart the torrent softness pours;
Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame
Dissolves in air away."
-THOMSON.

A few months passed over the heads of Ellen Langton and her admirers,
unproductive of events, that, separately, were of sufficient importance to
be related. The summer was now drawing to a close; and Dr. Melmoth had
received information that his friend's arrangements were nearly completed,
and that by the next home-bound ship he hoped to return to his native
country. The arrival of that ship was daily expected.

During the time that had elapsed since his first meeting with Ellen, there
had been a change, yet not a very remarkable one, in Fanshawe's habits. He
was still the same solitary being, so far as regarded his own sex; and he
still confined himself as sedulously to his chamber, except for one hour--
the sunset hour--of every day. At that period, unless prevented by the
inclemency of the weather, he was accustomed to tread a path that wound
along the banks of the stream. He had discovered that this was the most
frequent scene of Ellen's walks; and this it was that drew him thither.

Their intercourse was at first extremely slight,--a bow on the one side, a
smile on the other, and a passing word from both; and then the student
hurried back to his solitude. But, in course of time, opportunities
occurred for more extended conversation; so that, at the period with which
this chapter is concerned, Fanshawe was, almost as constantly as Edward
Walcott himself, the companion of Ellen's walks.

His passion had strengthened more than proportionably to the time that had
elapsed since it was conceived; but the first glow and excitement which
attended it had now vanished. He had reasoned calmly with himself, and
rendered evident to his own mind the almost utter hopelessness of success.
He had also made his resolution strong, that he would not even endeavor to
win Ellen's love, the result of which, for a thousand reasons, could not
be happiness. Firm in this determination, and confident of his power to
adhere to it; feeling, also, that time and absence could not cure his own
passion, and having no desire for such a cure,--he saw no reason for
breaking off the intercourse that was established between Ellen and
himself. It was remarkable, that, notwithstanding the desperate nature of
his love, that, or something connected with it, seemed to have a
beneficial effect upon his health. There was now a slight tinge of color
in his cheek, and a less consuming brightness in his eye. Could it be that
hope, unknown to himself, was yet alive in his breast; that a sense of the