University of Virginia Library

THE THREEFOLD DESTINY.

A FAËRY LEGEND.

I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing
effect, so far as my own mind was concerned,
by imagining a train of incidents, in which the spirit
and mechanism of the faëry legend should be combined
with the characters and manners of familiar
life. In the little tale which follows, a subdued tinge
of the wild and wonderful is thrown over a sketch of
New England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped,
without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature.
Rather than a story of events claiming to be real, it
may be considered as an allegory, such as the writers
of the last century would have expressed in the
shape of an eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored
to give a more life-like warmth than could
be infused into those fanciful productions.

In the twilight of a summer eve, a tall, dark figure,
over which long and remote travel had thrown an
outlandish aspect, was entering a village, not in

`Faëry Londe,' but within our own familiar boundaries.
The staff, on which this traveller leaned, had
been his companion from the spot where it grew, in
the jungles of Hindostan; the hat, that overshadowed
his sombre brow, had shielded him from the suns of
Spain; but his cheek had been blackened by the
red-hot wind of an Arabian desert, and had felt the
frozen breath of an Arctic region. Long sojourning
amid wild and dangerous men, he still wore beneath
his vest the ataghan which he had once struck into
the throat of a Turkish robber. In every foreign
clime he had lost something of his New England
characteristics; and, perhaps, from every people he
had unconsciously borrowed a new peculiarity; so
that when the world-wanderer again trod the street of
his native village, it is no wonder that he passed unrecognised,
though exciting the gaze and curiosity of
all. Yet, as his arm casually touched that of a young
woman, who was wending her way to an evening lecture,
she started, and almost 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 for a high destiny. He had imbibed
the idea — we say not whether it were revealed
to him by witchcraft, or in a dream of prophecy, or
that his brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates
upon him as the oracles of a Sybil — but he had imbibed

the idea, and held it firmest among his articles
of faith, that three marvellous events of his life were
to be confirmed to him by three signs.

The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the
one on which his youthful imagination had dwelt
most fondly, was the discovery of the maid, who
alone, of all the maids on earth, could make him
happy by her love. He was to roam around the
world till he should meet a beautiful woman, wearing
on her bosom a jewel in the shape of a heart; whether
of pearl, or ruby, or emerald, or carbuncle, or a
changeful opal, or perhaps a priceless diamond, Ralph
Cranfield little cared, so long as it were a heart of
one peculiar shape. On encountering this lovely
stranger, he was bound to address her thus: — `Maiden,
I have brought you a heavy heart. May I rest
its weight on you?' And if she were his fated
bride — if their kindred souls were destined to form a
union here below, which all eternity should only bind
more closely — she would reply, with her finger on
the heart-shaped jewel: — `This token, which I have
worn so long, is the assurance that you may!'

And secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief
that there was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere
in the earth, of which the burial-place would be
revealed to none but him. When his feet should
press upon the mysterious spot, there would be a hand
before him, pointing downward — whether carved of
marble, or hewn in gigantic dimensions on the side of
a rocky precipice, or perchance a hand of flame in
empty air, he could not tell; but, at least, he would

discern a hand, the fore-finger pointing downward,
and beneath it the Latin word Effode — Dig! And
digging thereabouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the
precious stones, or of whatever else the treasure might
consist, would be certain to reward his toil.

The third and last of the miraculous events in the
life of this high-destined man, was to be the attainment
of extensive influence and sway over his fellow-creatures.
Whether he were to be a king, and founder
of an hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a
people contending for their freedom, or the apostle of
a purified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity
to show. As messengers of the sign, by which
Ralph Cranfield might recognise the summons, three
venerable men were to claim audience of him. The
chief among them, a dignified and majestic person,
arrayed, it may be supposed, in the flowing garments
of an ancient sage, would be the bearer of a
wand, or prophet's rod. With this wand, or rod, or
staff, the venerable sage would trace a certain figure
in the air, and then proceed to make known his
heaven-instructed message; which, if obeyed, must
lead to glorious results.

With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his
imaginative youth, Ralph Cranfield had set forth to
seek the maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage,
with his gift of extended empire. And had he found
them? Alas! it was not with the aspect of a triumphant
man, who had achieved a nobler destiny than
all his fellows, but rather with the gloom of one struggling
against peculiar and continual adversity, that

he now passed homeward to his mother's cottage.
He had come back, but only for a time, to lay aside the
pilgrim's staff, trusting that his weary manhood would
regain somewhat of the elasticity of youth, in the spot
where his threefold fate had been foreshown him.
There had been few changes in the village; for it
was not one of those thriving places where a year's
prosperity makes more than the havoc of a century's
decay; but like a gray hair in a young man's head,
an antiquated little town, full of old maids, and aged
elms, and moss-grown dwellings. Few seemed to
be the changes here. The drooping elms, indeed,
had a more majestic spread; the weather-blackened
houses were adorned with a denser thatch of verdant
moss; and doubtless there were a few more
grave-stones in the burial-ground, inscribed with
names that had once been familiar in the village
street. Yet, summing up all the mischief that ten
years had wrought, it seemed scarcely more than if
Ralph Cranfield had gone forth that very morning,
and dreamed a day-dream till the twilight, and then
turned back again. But his heart grew cold, because
the village did not remember him as he remembered
the 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, and heavy with
disappointed hopes? The youth returns not, who
went forth so joyously!'

And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother's gate,
in front of the small house where the old lady, with
slender but sufficient means, had kept herself comfortable

during her son's long absence. Admitting
himself within the enclosure, he leaned against a
great, old tree, trifling with his own impatience, as
people often do in those intervals when years are
summed into a moment. He took a minute survey
of the dwelling — its windows, brightened with the
sky gleam, its door-way, with the half of a mill-stone for
a step, and the faintly-traced path waving thence to
the gate. He made friends again with his childhood's
friend, the old tree against which he leaned; and
glancing his eye adown its trunk, beheld something
that excited a melancholy smile. It was a half-obliterated
inscription — the Latin word EFFODE — which
he remembered to have carved in the bark of the
tree, with a whole day's toil, when he had first begun
to muse about his exalted destiny. It might be
accounted a rather singular coincidence, that the bark,
just above the inscription, had put forth an excrescence,
shaped not unlike a hand, with the fore-finger
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 world, lies buried, after
all, at the very door of my mother's dwelling.
That would be a jest indeed!'

More he thought not about the matter; for now the
door was opened, and an elderly woman appeared
on the threshold, peering into the dusk to discover
who it might be that had intruded on her premises,
and was standing 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 the other to his
rest — if quiet rest he found.

But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled
brow; for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike
been full of dreams. All the fervor was rekindled
with which he had burned of yore to unravel
the threefold mystery of his fate. The crowd of his
early visions seemed to have awaited him beneath his
mother's roof, and thronged riotously around to
welcome his return. In the well-remembered chamber
— on the pillow where his infancy had slumbered
— he had passed a wilder night than ever in
an Arab tent, or when he had reposed his head in
the ghastly shades of a haunted forest. A shadowy
maid had stolen to his bedside, and laid her finger on
the scintillating heart; a hand of flame had glowed
amid the darkness, pointing downward to a mystery
within the earth; a hoary sage had waved his prophetic
wand, and beckoned the dreamer onward to a
chair of state. The same phantoms, though fainter
in the daylight, still flitted about the cottage, and
mingled among the crowd of familiar faces that were
drawn thither by the news of Ralph 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 eye, which seemed
often to snatch a glance at the invisible.

Meantime the widow Cranfield went bustling about
the house, full of joy that she again had somebody to

love, and be careful of, and for whom she might
vex and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily
life. It was nearly noon, when she looked forth
from the door, and descried three personages of
note coming along the street, through the hot sunshine
and the masses of elm-tree shade. At length
they reached her gate, and undid the latch.

`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 visiters, 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 visiters, 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 towards 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-corned hat in order to wipe his brow,
and finally proceeded to make known his errand.

`My colleagues and myself,' began the Squire,
`are burthened 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 instructer 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 afterwards 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 recognised 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 road-side, 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 door-way, 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
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 arrow-heads, 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 gaily,
`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!