THE THREEFOLD DESTINY.
A FAERY LEGEND.
I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so faras my own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents inwhich the spirit and mechanism of the faery legend should be combinedwith the characters and manners of familiar life. In the little talewhich follows a subdued tinge of the wild and wonderful is thrown overa sketch of New England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped,without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. Rather than astory of events claiming to be real, it may be considered as anallegory such as the writers of the last century would have expressedin the shape of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored togive a more lifelike warmth than could be infused into those fancifulproductions.
In the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure over which long andremote travel had thrown an outlandish aspect was entering a villagenot in "faery londe," but within our own familiar boundaries. Thestaff on which this traveller leaned had been his companion from thespot where it grew in the jungles of Hindostan; the hat thatovershadowed his sombre brow, had shielded him from the suns of Spain;but his cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind of an Arabiandesert and had felt the frozen breath of an Arctic region. Longsojourning amid wild and dangerous men, he still wore beneath his vestthe ataghan which he had once struck into the throat of a Turkishrobber. In every foreign clime he had lost something of his NewEngland characteristics, and perhaps from every people he hadunconsciously borrowed a new peculiarity; so that when theworld-wanderer again trod the street of his native village it is nowonder that he passed unrecognized, though exciting the gaze andcuriosity of all. Yet, as his arm casually touched that of a youngwoman who was wending her way to an evening lecture, she started andalmost uttered a cry.
"Ralph Cranfield!" was the name that she half articulated.
"Can that be my old playmate Faith Egerton?" thought the traveller,looking round at her figure, but without pausing.
Ralph Cranfield from his youth upward had felt himself marked out fora high destiny. He had imbibed the idea--we say not whether it wererevealed to him by witchcraft or in a dream of prophecy, or that hisbrooding fancy had palmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles ofa sybil, but he had imbibed the idea, and held it firmest among hisarticles of faith--that three marvellous events of his life were to beconfirmed to him by three signs.
The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the one on which hisyouthful imagination had dwelt most fondly, was the discovery of themaid who alone of all the maids on earth could make him happy by herlove. He was to roam around the world till he should meet a beautifulwoman wearing on her bosom a jewel in the shape of a heart--whether ofpearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncle or a changeful opal, or perhapsa priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, so long as it werea heart of one peculiar shape. On encountering this lovely stranger hewas bound to address her thus: "Maiden, I have brought you a heavyheart. May I rest its weight on you?" And if she were his fatedbride--if their kindred souls were destined to form a union here belowwhich all eternity should only bind more closely--she would reply,with her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, "This token which I haveworn so long is the assurance that you may."
And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief that there was amighty treasure hidden somewhere in the earth of which theburial-place would be revealed to none but him. When his feet shouldpress upon the mysterious spot, there would be a hand before himpointing downward--whether carved of marble or hewn in giganticdimensions on the side of a rocky precipice, or perchance a hand offlame in empty air, he could not tell, but at least he would discern ahand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath it the Latin word"_Effode_"--"Dig!" And, digging thereabouts, the gold in coin oringots, the precious stones, or of whatever else the treasure mightconsist, would be certain to reward his toil.
The third and last of the miraculous events in the life of thishigh-destined man was to be the attainment of extensive influence andsway over his fellow-creatures. Whether he were to be a king andfounder of a hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a peoplecontending for their freedom, or the apostle of a purified andregenerated faith, was left for futurity to show. As messengers of thesign by which Ralph Cranfield might recognize the summons, threevenerable men were to claim audience of him. The chief among them--adignified and majestic person arrayed, it may be supposed, in theflowing garments of an ancient sage--would be the bearer of a wand orprophet's rod. With this wand or rod or staff the venerable sage wouldtrace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed to make known hisHeaven-instructed message, which, if obeyed, must lead to gloriousresults.
With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his imaginative youthRalph Cranfield had set forth to seek the maid, the treasure, and thevenerable sage with his gift of extended empire. And had he foundthem? Alas! it was not with the aspect of a triumphant man who hadachieved a nobler destiny than all his fellows, but rather with thegloom of one struggling against peculiar and continual adversity, thathe now passed homeward to his mother's cottage. He had come back, butonly for a time, to lay aside the pilgrim's staff, trusting that hisweary manhood would regain somewhat of the elasticity of youth in thespot where his threefold fate had been foreshown him. There had beenfew changes in the village, for it was not one of those thrivingplaces where a year's prosperity makes more than the havoc of acentury's decay, but, like a gray hair in a young man's head, anantiquated little town full of old maids and aged elms and moss-growndwellings. Few seemed to be the changes here. The drooping elms,indeed, had a more majestic spread, the weather-blackened houses wereadorned with a denser thatch of verdant moss, and doubtless there werea few more gravestones in the burial-ground inscribed with names thathad once been familiar in the village street; yet, summing up all themischief that ten years had wrought, it seemed scarcely more than ifRalph Cranfield had gone forth that very morning and dreamed aday-dream till the twilight, and then turned back again. But his heartgrew cold because the village did not remember him as he rememberedthe village.
"Here is the change," sighed he, striking his hand upon his breast."Who is this man of thought and care, weary with world-wandering andheavy with disappointed hopes? The youth returns not who went forth sojoyously."
And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother's gate, in front of thesmall house where the old lady, with slender but sufficient means, hadkept herself comfortable during her son's long absence. Admittinghimself within the enclosure, he leaned against a great old tree,trifling with his own impatience as people often do in those intervalswhen years are summed into a moment. He took a minute survey of thedwelling--its windows brightened with the sky-gleam, its doorway withthe half of a millstone for a step, and the faintly-traced path wavingthence to the gate. He made friends again with his childhood'sfriend--the old tree against which he leaned--and, glancing his eyedown its trunk, beheld something that excited a melancholy smile. Itwas a half-obliterated inscription--the Latin word "_Effode_"--whichhe remembered to have carved in the bark of the tree with a wholeday's toil when he had first begun to muse about his exalted destiny.It might be accounted a rather singular coincidence that the bark justabove the inscription had put forth an excrescence shaped not unlike ahand, with the forefinger pointing obliquely at the word of fate.Such, at least, was its appearance in the dusky light.
"Now, a credulous man," said Ralph Cranfield, carelessly, to himself,"might suppose that the treasure which I have sought round the worldlies buried, after all, at the very door of my mother's dwelling. Thatwould be a jest indeed."
More he thought not about the matter, for now the door was opened andan elderly woman appeared on the threshold, peering into the dusk todiscover who it might be that had intruded on her premises and wasstanding in the shadow of her tree. It was Ralph Cranfield's mother.Pass we over their greeting, and leave the one to her joy and theother to his rest--if quiet rest he found.
But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled br
ow, for his sleepand his wakefulness had alike been full of dreams. All the fervor wasrekindled with which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefoldmystery of his fate. The crowd of his early visions seemed to haveawaited him beneath his mother's roof and thronged riotously around towelcome his return. In the well-remembered chamber, on the pillowwhere his infancy had slumbered, he had passed a wilder night thanever in an Arab tent or when he had reposed his head in the ghastlyshades of a haunted forest. A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedsideand laid her finger on the scintillating heart; a hand of flame hadglowed amid the darkness, pointing downward to a mystery within theearth; a hoary sage had waved his prophetic wand and beckoned thedreamer onward to a chair of state. The same phantoms, though fainterin the daylight, still flitted about, the cottage and mingled amongthe crowd of familiar faces that were drawn thither by the news ofRalph Cranfield's return to bid him welcome for his mother's sake.There they found him, a tall, dark, stately man of foreign aspect,courteous in demeanor and mild of speech, yet with an abstracted eyewhich seemed often to snatch a glance at the invisible.
Meantime, the widow Cranfield went bustling about the house full ofjoy that she again had somebody to love and be careful of, and forwhom she might vex and tease herself with the petty troubles of dailylife. It was nearly noon when she looked forth from the door anddescried three personages of note coming along the street through thehot sunshine and the masses of elm-tree shade. At length they reachedher gate and undid the latch.
"See, Ralph!" exclaimed she, with maternal pride; "here is SquireHawkwood and the two other selectmen coming on purpose to see you.Now, do tell them a good long story about what you have seen inforeign parts."
The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood, was a verypompous but excellent old gentleman, the head and prime-mover in allthe affairs of the village, and universally acknowledged to be one ofthe sagest men on earth. He wore, according to a fashion even thenbecoming antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and carried a silver-headedcane the use of which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the airthan for assisting the progress of his legs. His two companions wereelderly and respectable yeomen who, retaining an ante-Revolutionaryreverence for rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in thesquire's rear.
As they approached along the pathway Ralph Cranfield sat in an oakenelbow-chair half unconsciously gazing at the three visitors andenveloping their homely figures in the misty romance that pervaded hismental world. "Here," thought he, smiling at the conceit--"here comethree elderly personages, and the first of the three is a venerablesage with a staff. What if this embassy should bring me the message ofmy fate?"
While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, Ralph rose from hisseat and advanced a few steps to receive them, and his stately figureand dark countenance as he bent courteously toward his guests had anatural dignity contrasting well with the bustling importance of thesquire. The old gentleman, according to invariable custom, gave anelaborate preliminary flourish with his cane in the air, then removedhis three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and finallyproceeded to make known his errand.
"My colleagues and myself," began the squire, "are burdened withmomentous duties, being jointly selectmen of this village. Our mindsfor the space of three days past have been laboriously bent on theselection of a suitable person to fill a most important office andtake upon himself a charge and rule which, wisely considered, may beranked no lower than those of kings and potentates. And whereas you,our native townsman, are of good natural intellect and well cultivatedby foreign travel, and that certain vagaries and fantasies of youryouth are doubtless long ago corrected,--taking all these matters, Isay, into due consideration, we are of opinion that Providence hathsent you hither at this juncture for our very purpose."
During this harangue Cranfield gazed fixedly at the speaker, as if hebeheld something mysterious and unearthly in his pompous littlefigure, and as if the squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancientsage instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvetbreeches and silk stockings. Nor was his wonder without sufficientcause, for the flourish of the squire's staff, marvellous to relate,had described precisely the signal in the air which was to ratify themessage of the prophetic sage whom Cranfield had sought around theworld.
"And what," inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor in hisvoice--"what may this office be which is to equal me with kings andpotentates?"
"No less than instructor of our village school," answered SquireHawkwood, "the office being now vacant by the death of the venerableMaster 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 tooktheir leave. But to Cranfield's fancy their images were still present,and became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figureswhich had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shownthemselves in his waking moments, assuming homely aspects amongfamiliar things. His mind dwelt upon the features of the squire tillthey grew confused with those of the visionary sage and one appearedbut the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now thought, hadlooked forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same form hadbeckoned to him among the colonnades of the Alhambra; the same figurehad mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the GreatGeyser. At every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of thedreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important,little-great man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph Cranfield satall day in the cottage, scarcely hearing and vaguely answering hismother's thousand questions about his travels and adventures. Atsunset he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elmtree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand pointingdownward at the half-obliterated inscription.
As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeamsthrew his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadowwalked among distant objects, so had there been a presentimentstalking in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew neareach object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still itproved to be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy andyouth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the moretransitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gonedays. A company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, andrefreshed him with their fragrant breath. "It is sweeter," thought he,"than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the SpiceIslands." The round little figure of a child rolled from a doorway andlay laughing almost beneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and stately manstooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to his mother'sarms. "The children," said he to himself, and sighed and smiled--"thechildren are to be my charge." And while a flow of natural feelinggushed like a well-spring in his heart he came to a dwelling which hecould nowise forbear to enter. A sweet voice which seemed to come froma deep and tender soul was warbling a plaintive little air within. Hebent his head and passed through the lowly door. As his foot soundedupon the threshold a young woman advanced from the dusky interior ofthe house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncertain step, tillthey met face to face. There was a singular contrast in their twofigures--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 variedcourse; she neat, comely and quiet--quiet even in her agitation--as ifall her emotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life.Yet their faces, all unlike as they were, had an expression thatseemed not so alien--a glow of kindred feeling flashing upward anewfrom half-extinguished embers.
"You are welcome home," said Faith Egerton.
But Cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye had, been caughtby an ornament in the shape of a heart which Faith wore as a broochupon her bosom. The material was the ordinary white quartz, and herecollected having himself shaped it out of one of those Indianarrowheads which are so often found in the ancient haunts of the redmen. It was
precisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionarymaid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy search, he had bestowedthis 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 elsehave you brought me from beyond the sea?"
"Faith," replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated words by anuncontrollable 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 hertremulous finger on the heart, "is the assurance that you may."
"Faith, Faith!" cried Cranfield, clasping her in his arms; "you haveinterpreted my wild and weary dream!"
Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find the mysterioustreasure he was to till the earth around his mother's dwelling andreap its products; instead of warlike command or regal or religioussway, he was to rule over the village children; and now the visionarymaid had faded from his fancy, and in her place he saw the playmate ofhis childhood.
Would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around them, theywould oftenest find their sphere of duty, of prosperity and happiness,within those precincts and in that station where Providence itself hascast their lot. Happy they who read the riddle without a wearyworld-search or a lifetime spent in vain!
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