The Complete Short Stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne: 120+ Titles in One Edition (Illustrated Edition). Nathaniel Hawthorne
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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 wellspring 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!
The Whole History of Grandfather’s Chair (1840)
Grandfather’s Chair: Part I. 1620-1692
Chapter I. Grandfather and the Children and the Chair
Chapter II. The Puritans and the Lady Arbella
Chapter V. The Government of New England
Chapter VI. The Pine-tree Shillings
Chapter VII. The Quakers and the Indians
Chapter VIII. The Indian Bible
Chapter IX. England and New England
Chapter X. The Sunken Treasure
Chapter XI. What the Chair Had Known
Appendix to Grandfather’s Chair: Part I
Grandfather’s Chair: Part II. 1692-1763
Chapter I. The Chair in the Firelight
Chapter III. The Old-fashioned School
Chapter V. The Rejected Blessing
Chapter VI. Pomps and Vanities
Chapter VII. The Provincial Muster
Chapter VIII. The Old French War and the Acadian Exiles