Chapter 10 - Page 2

leafless oak
which had witnessed Ellen's first meeting with the angler. Here he mused
upon the circumstances that had resulted from that event, and upon the
rights and privileges (for he was well aware of them all) which those
circumstances had given him. Perhaps the loveliness of the scene and the
recollections connected with it, perhaps the warm and mellow sunset,
perhaps a temporary weakness in himself, had softened his feelings, and
shaken the firmness of his resolution, to leave Ellen to be happy with his
rival. His strong affections rose up against his reason, whispering that
bliss--on earth and in heaven, through time and eternity--might yet be his
lot with her. It is impossible to conceive of the flood of momentary joy
which the bare admission of such a possibility sent through his frame;
and, just when the tide was highest in his heart, a soft little hand was
laid upon his own, and, starting, he beheld Ellen at his side.

Her illness, since the commencement of which Fanshawe had not seen her,
had wrought a considerable, but not a disadvantageous, change in her
appearance. She was paler and thinner; her countenance was more
intellectual, more spiritual; and a spirit did the student almost deem
her, appearing so suddenly in that solitude. There was a quick vibration
of the delicate blood in her cheek, yet never brightening to the glow of
perfect health; a tear was glittering on each of her long, dark eyelashes;
and there was a gentle tremor through all her frame, which compelled her,
for a little space, to support herself against the oak. Fanshawe's first
impulse was to address her in words of rapturous delight; but he checked
himself, and attempted--vainly indeed--to clothe his voice in tones of
calm courtesy. His remark merely expressed pleasure at her restoration to
health; and Ellen's low and indistinct reply had as little relation to the
feelings that agitated her.

"Yet I fear," continued Fanshawe, recovering a degree of composure, and
desirous of assigning a motive (which he felt was not the true one) for
Ellen's agitation,--"I fear that your walk has extended too far for your
strength."

"It would have borne me farther with such a motive," she replied, still
trembling,--"to express my gratitude to my preserver."

"It was needless, Ellen, it was needless; for the deed brought with it its
own reward," exclaimed Fanshawe, with a vehemence that he could not
repress. "It was dangerous, for"--

Here he interrupted himself, and turned his face away.

"And wherefore was it dangerous?" inquired Ellen, laying her hand gently
on his arm; for he seemed about to leave her.

"Because you have a tender and generous