Twice-Told Tales (58 page)

"See, Ralph!" exclaimed she, with maternal pride; "here is Squire
Hawkwood and the two other selectmen coming on purpose to see you.
Now, do tell them a good long story about what you have seen in
foreign parts."

The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood, was a very
pompous but excellent old gentleman, the head and prime-mover in all
the affairs of the village, and universally acknowledged to be one of
the sagest men on earth. He wore, according to a fashion even then
becoming antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and carried a silver-headed
cane the use of which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the air
than for assisting the progress of his legs. His two companions were
elderly and respectable yeomen who, retaining an ante-Revolutionary
reverence for rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in the
squire's rear.

As they approached along the pathway Ralph Cranfield sat in an oaken
elbow-chair half unconsciously gazing at the three visitors and
enveloping their homely figures in the misty romance that pervaded his
mental world. "Here," thought he, smiling at the conceit—"here come
three elderly personages, and the first of the three is a venerable
sage with a staff. What if this embassy should bring me the message of
my fate?"

While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, Ralph rose from his
seat and advanced a few steps to receive them, and his stately figure
and dark countenance as he bent courteously toward his guests had a
natural dignity contrasting well with the bustling importance of the
squire. The old gentleman, according to invariable custom, gave an
elaborate preliminary flourish with his cane in the air, then removed
his three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and finally
proceeded to make known his errand.

"My colleagues and myself," began the squire, "are burdened with
momentous duties, being jointly selectmen of this village. Our minds
for the space of three days past have been laboriously bent on the
selection of a suitable person to fill a most important office and
take upon himself a charge and rule which, wisely considered, may be
ranked no lower than those of kings and potentates. And whereas you,
our native townsman, are of good natural intellect and well cultivated
by foreign travel, and that certain vagaries and fantasies of your
youth are doubtless long ago corrected,—taking all these matters, I
say, into due consideration, we are of opinion that Providence hath
sent you hither at this juncture for our very purpose."

During this harangue Cranfield gazed fixedly at the speaker, as if he
beheld something mysterious and unearthly in his pompous little
figure, and as if the squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient
sage instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvet
breeches and silk stockings. Nor was his wonder without sufficient
cause, for the flourish of the squire's staff, marvellous to relate,
had described precisely the signal in the air which was to ratify the
message of the prophetic sage whom Cranfield had sought around the
world.

"And what," inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor in his
voice—"what may this office be which is to equal me with kings and
potentates?"

"No less than instructor of our village school," answered Squire
Hawkwood, "the office being now vacant by the death of the venerable
Master Whitaker after a fifty years' incumbency."

"I will consider of your proposal," replied Ralph Cranfield,
hurriedly, "and will make known my decision within three days."

After a few more words the village dignitary and his companions took
their leave. But to Cranfield's fancy their images were still present,
and became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figures
which had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown
themselves in his waking moments, assuming homely aspects among
familiar things. His mind dwelt upon the features of the squire till
they grew confused with those of the visionary sage and one appeared
but the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now thought, had
looked forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same form had
beckoned to him among the colonnades of the Alhambra; the same figure
had mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the Great
Geyser. At every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the
dreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important,
little-great man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph Cranfield sat
all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing and vaguely answering his
mother's thousand questions about his travels and adventures. At
sunset he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm
tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand pointing
downward at the half-obliterated inscription.

As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams
threw his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow
walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment
stalking in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew near
each object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it
proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and
youth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more
transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone
days. A company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and
refreshed him with their fragrant breath. "It is sweeter," thought he,
"than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the Spice
Islands." The round little figure of a child rolled from a doorway and
lay laughing almost beneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and stately man
stooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to his mother's
arms. "The children," said he to himself, and sighed and smiled—"the
children are to be my charge." And while a flow of natural feeling
gushed like a well-spring in his heart he came to a dwelling which he
could nowise forbear to enter. A sweet voice which seemed to come from
a deep and tender soul was warbling a plaintive little air within. He
bent his head and passed through the lowly door. As his foot sounded
upon the threshold a young woman advanced from the dusky interior of
the house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncertain step, till
they met face to face. There was a singular contrast in their two
figures—he dark and picturesque, one who had battled with the world,
whom all suns had shone upon and whom all winds had blown on a varied
course; she neat, comely and quiet—quiet even in her agitation—as if
all her emotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life.
Yet their faces, all unlike as they were, had an expression that
seemed not so alien—a glow of kindred feeling flashing upward anew
from half-extinguished embers.

"You are welcome home," said Faith Egerton.

But Cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye had, been caught
by an ornament in the shape of a heart which Faith wore as a brooch
upon her bosom. The material was the ordinary white quartz, and he
recollected having himself shaped it out of one of those Indian
arrowheads which are so often found in the ancient haunts of the red
men. It was precisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionary
maid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy search, he had bestowed
this brooch, in a gold setting, as a parting gift to Faith Egerton.

"So, Faith, you have kept the heart?" said he, at length.

"Yes," said she, blushing deeply; then, more gayly, "And what else
have you brought me from beyond the sea?"

"Faith," replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated words by an
uncontrollable impulse, "I have brought you nothing but a heavy heart.
May I rest its weight on you?"

"This token which I have worn so long," said Faith, laying her
tremulous finger on the heart, "is the assurance that you may."

"Faith, Faith!" cried Cranfield, clasping her in his arms; "you have
interpreted my wild and weary dream!"

Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find the mysterious
treasure he was to till the earth around his mother's dwelling and
reap its products; instead of warlike command or regal or religious
sway, he was to rule over the village children; and now the visionary
maid had faded from his fancy, and in her place he saw the playmate of
his childhood.

Would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around them, they
would oftenest find their sphere of duty, of prosperity and happiness,
within those precincts and in that station where Providence itself has
cast their lot. Happy they who read the riddle without a weary
world-search or a lifetime spent in vain!

[1]
Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, Maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that is here related of the Reverend Mr. Hooper. In his case, however, the symbol had a different import. In early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend, and from that day till the hour of his own death he hid his face from men.

[2]
Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though an eccentric, is not known to have been an immoral man. We rather doubt his identity with the priest of Merry Mount.

[3]
Essex and Washington streets, Salem.

[4]
The Indian tradition on which this somewhat extravagant tale is founded is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up in prose. Sullivan, in his history of Maine, written since the Revolution, remarks that even then the existence of the Great Carbuncle was not entirely discredited.

[5]
This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart related in Dunlap's History of the Arts of Designs—a most entertaining book to the general reader, and a deeply-interesting one, we should think, to the artist.