Twice-Told Tales

  THE AMBITIOUS GUEST

  One September night a family had gathered round their hearth,and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the drycones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees thathad come crashing down the precipice. Up the chimney roared thefire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces ofthe father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed;the eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen; andthe aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, wasthe image of Happiness grown old. They had found the "herb,heart's-ease," in the bleakest spot of all New England. Thisfamily were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where thewind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in thewinter,--giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before itdescended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spotand a dangerous one; for a mountain towered above their heads, sosteep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides andstartle them at midnight.

  The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled themall with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemedto pause before their cottage--rattling the door, with a sound ofwailing and lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For amoment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in thetones. But the family were glad again when they perceived thatthe latch was lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had beenunheard amid the dreary blast which heralded his approach, andwailed as he was entering, and went moaning away from the door.

  Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held dailyconverse with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is agreat artery, through which the life-blood of internal commerceis continually throbbing between Maine, on one side, and theGreen Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other.The stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage.The wayfarer, with no companion but his staff, paused here toexchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterlyovercome him ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain,or reach the first house in the valley. And here the teamster, onhis way to Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if abachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and steal akiss from the mountain maid at parting. It was one of thoseprimitive taverns where the traveller pays only for food andlodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. Whenthe footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door andthe inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, childrenand all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them,and whose fate was linked with theirs.

  The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore themelancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels awild and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightenedup when he saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt hisheart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, whowiped a chair with her apron, to the little child that held outits arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on afooting of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter.

  "Ah, this fire is the right thing!" cried he; "especially whenthere is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed;for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows;it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way fromBartlett."

  "Then you are going towards Vermont?" said the master of thehouse, as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man'sshoulders.

  "Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "I meantto have been at Ethan Crawford's to-night; but a pedestrianlingers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when Isaw this good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if youhad kindled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. SoI shall sit down among you, and make myself at home."

  The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the firewhen something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushingdown the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapidstrides, and taking such a leap in passing the cottage as tostrike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath,because they knew the sound, and their guest held his byinstinct.

  "The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we shouldforget him," said the landlord, recovering himself. "He sometimesnods his head and threatens to come down; but we are oldneighbors, and agree together pretty well upon the whole. Besideswe have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming ingood earnest."

  Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper ofbear's meat; and, by his natural felicity of manner, to haveplaced himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family, sothat they talked as freely together as if he belonged to theirmountain brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit--haughty andreserved among the rich and great; but ever ready to stoop hishead to the lowly cottage door, and be like a brother or a son atthe poor man's fireside. In the household of the Notch he foundwarmth and simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence ofNew England, and a poetry of native growth, which they hadgathered when they little thought of it from the mountain peaksand chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic anddangerous abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life,indeed, had been a solitary path; for, with the lofty caution ofhis nature, he had kept himself apart from those who mightotherwise have been his companions. The family, too, though sokind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity amongthemselves, and separation from the world at large, which, inevery domestic circle, should still keep a holy place where nostranger may intrude. But this evening a prophetic sympathyimpelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heartbefore the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answerhim with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been.Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that ofbirth?

  The secret of the young man's character was a high and abstractedambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life,but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had beentransformed to hope; and hope, long cherished, had become likecertainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was tobeam on all his pathway,--though not, perhaps, while he wastreading it. But when posterity should gaze back into the gloomof what was now the present, they would trace the brightness ofhis footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confessthat a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb withnone to recognize him.

  "As yet," cried the stranger--his cheek glowing and his eyeflashing with enthusiasm--"as yet, I have done nothing. Were I tovanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me asyou: that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valleyof the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, andpassed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not asoul would ask, 'Who was he? Whither did the wanderer go?' But Icannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come!I shall have built my monument!"

  There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing forth amidabstracted reverie, which enabled the family to understand thisyoung man's sentiments, though so foreign from their own. Withquick sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor intowhich he had been betrayed.

  "You laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daughter's hand,and laughing himself. "You think my ambition as nonsensical as ifI were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington,only that people might spy at me from the country round about.And, truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue!"

  "It is better to sit here by this fire," answered the girl,blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinksabout us."

  "I suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, "there issomething natural in what the young man says; and if my mind hadbeen turned that way, I might have felt just the same. It isstrange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on thingsthat are pretty certain never to come to pass."

  "Perhaps they may," observed the wife. "Is the man thinking whathe will do when he is a widower?"

  "No, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness."When I think of your death, Esth
er, I think of mine, too. But Iwas wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, orLittleton, or some other township round the White Mountains; butnot where they could tumble on our heads. I should want to standwell with my neighbors and be called Squire, and sent to GeneralCourt for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as muchgood there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an oldman, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I mightdie happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me. Aslate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one--with justmy name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to letpeople know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian."

  "There now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is our nature to desirea monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or aglorious memory in the universal heart of man."

  "We're in a strange way, to-night," said the wife, with tears inher eyes. "They say it's a sign of something, when folks' mindsgo a wandering so. Hark to the children!"

  They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put tobed in another room, but with an open door between, so that theycould be heard talking busily among themselves. One and allseemed to have caught the infection from the fireside circle, andwere outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish projects ofwhat they would do when they came to be men and women. At lengtha little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters,called out to his mother.

  "I'll tell you what I wish, mother," cried he. "I want you andfather and grandma'm, and all of us, and the stranger too, tostart right away, and go and take a drink out of the basin of theFlume!"

  Nobody could help laughing at the child's notion of leaving awarm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful fire, to visit thebasin of the Flume,--a brook, which tumbles over the precipice,deep within the Notch. The boy had hardly spoken when a wagonrattled along the road, and stopped a moment before the door. Itappeared to contain two or three men, who were cheering theirhearts with the rough chorus of a song, which resounded, inbroken notes, between the cliffs, while the singers hesitatedwhether to continue their journey or put up here for the night.

  "Father," said the girl, "they are calling you by name."

  But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, andwas unwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by invitingpeople to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to thedoor; and the lash being soon applied, the travellers plungedinto the Notch, still singing and laughing, though their musicand mirth came back drearily from the heart of the mountain.

  "There, mother!" cried the boy, again. "They'd have given us aride to the Flume."

  Again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a nightramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over thedaughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew abreath that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of alittle struggle to repress it. Then starting and blushing, shelooked quickly round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpseinto her bosom. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.

  "Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile. "Only I feltlonesome just then."

  "Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in otherpeople's hearts," said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell thesecrets of yours? For I know what to think when a young girlshivers by a warm hearth, and complains of lonesomeness at hermother's side. Shall I put these feelings into words?"

  "They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could beput into words," replied the mountain nymph, laughing, butavoiding his eye.

  All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing intheir hearts, so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since itcould not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentledignity as his; and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul isoftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they spokesoftly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsomeshadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden's nature, the wind throughthe Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as thefanciful stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits ofthe blast, who in old Indian times had their dwelling among thesemountains, and made their heights and recesses a sacred region.There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were passing. Tochase away the gloom, the family threw pine branches on theirfire, till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose,discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. Thelight hovered about them fondly, and caressed them all. Therewere the little faces of the children, peeping from their bedapart and here the father's frame of strength, the mother'ssubdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the buddinggirl, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmestplace. The aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingersever busy, was the next to speak.

  "Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones.You've been wishing and planning; and letting your heads run onone thing and another, till you've set my mind a wandering too.Now what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a stepor two before she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt menight and day till I tell you."

  "What is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once.

  Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circlecloser round the fire, informed them that she had provided hergraveclothes some years before,--a nice linen shroud, a cap witha muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had wornsince her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition hadstrangely recurred to her. It used to be said, in her youngerdays, that if anything were amiss with a corpse, if only the ruffwere not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the corpse in thecoffin and beneath the clods would strive to put up its coldhands and arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous.

  "Don't talk so, grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering.

  "Now,"--continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yetsmiling strangely at her own folly,--"I want one of you, mychildren--when your mother is dressed and in the coffin--I wantone of you to hold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but Imay take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right?"

  "Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," murmured thestranger youth. "I wonder how mariners feel when the ship issinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buriedtogether in the ocean--that wide and nameless sepulchre?"

  For a moment, the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed theminds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, risinglike the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible,before the fated group were conscious of it. The house and allwithin it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to beshaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump.Young and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an instant,pale, affrighted, without utterance, or power to move. Then thesame shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips.

  "The Slide! The Slide!"

  The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, theunutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed fromtheir cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a saferspot--where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort ofbarrier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their security,and fled right into the pathway of destruction. Down came thewhole side of the mountain, in a cataract of ruin. Just before itreached the house, the stream broke into two branches--shiverednot a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blockedup the road, and annihilated everything in its dreadful course.Long ere the thunder of the great Slide had ceased to roar amongthe mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the victimswere at peace. Their bodies were never found.

  The next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from thecottage chimney up the mountain side. Within, the fire was yetsmouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it,as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastationof the Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for theirmiraculous escape. All had left separate tokens, by which thosewho had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. Whohas not hea
rd their name? The story has been told far and wide,and will forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sungtheir fate.

  There were circumstances which led some to suppose that astranger had been received into the cottage on this awful night,and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. Others deniedthat there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. Woe forthe high-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immortality! Hisname and person utterly unknown; his history, his way of life,his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his death and hisexistence equally a doubt! Whose was the agony of that deathmoment?