The Ambitious Guest

One September night a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had found the “herb, heart’s-ease,” in the bleakest spot of all New England. This family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter,—giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain towered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage—rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which heralded his approach, and wailed as he was entering, and went moaning away down the valley. A young man stood before them, with honest but slender features, and a stain of travel on his sunburnt cheek. His face at first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who wiped a pair of spectacles to scrutinize his face, to the little boy of three years old, who held out his hands from his mother’s lap.

“Ah, this fire is the right thing!” cried he; “especially when there 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 from Bartlett.”

“Then you are going towards Vermont?” said the master of the house, as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man’s shoulders.

“Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” replied he. “I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s to-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for when I saw this good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall rest content here.”

They threw the young man’s sack upon the floor, and he became forthwith one of the family. Meanwhile the storm increased without, and roared louder and louder through the pass. The old mountain complained heavily. Some strange phenomenon, never observed before, had occurred on its summit, that night. Signs, heard but not seen, threatened the valley. Several hours previously, the sound of stones rolling down had been heard, and travellers, noticing the increase of this disturbance, had conjectured that the mountain big with snow might have been shaken by the splitting of the internal rocks. Perhaps a slide, descending into the valley, had been predicted by the wise ones. One passed down the valley a few hours before, and showed his fears for his own safety by frequent backward glances at the mountain. There was a prejudice among the poor dwellers in the valley, that the sacrifice of one human life would avert a global catastrophe. But this was readily believed by the superstitious.

The young man cast a look at the hearth, where the grandmother sat knitting.

“Old folks have their notions,” said the master of the house, laughing. “And sometimes they prove true. But I tell you, grandmother, that the Notch is just as safe, for all this noise, as Saco valley.”

“Then tell me why you think so?” said the grandmother, fixing her spectacles more firmly.

“Because,” answered the husbandman, “the good providence of God has garrisoned the Notch with hills that shield it from the wind and storm. Besides, if the mountain should ever fall, it would thunder down into the road, and not touch our cottage. We are protected by a ridge of rock, that would turn the slide above us.”

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“Ay,” said the daughter, in a low voice, “but what if the slide came down in the night, when we were all asleep?”

The young man looked from the girl to the grandmother, and back again to the girl. Her face was pale, and her eyes were fixed upon the floor. The grandmother continued knitting.

“It is a fearful thought,” said the young man, shuddering. “But we will hope for the best.”

“Hope for the best!” repeated the father. “Ay; hope is generally the last thing to fail us. But this is a comfortable place, and a safe one. So take your supper, young man, and then to bed. You look weary.”

The supper consisted of mountain trout, the flesh of a bear, and cakes of Indian meal, baked upon the hearth. The guest ate heartily, and was thankful for the mountain hospitality. While the meal was in progress, the host related one or two traditionary anecdotes of the Notch, dangers overcome, and hairbreadth escapes, which had happened there from the first settlement of the country down to the present hour. The young man listened with interest, and when the stories were finished, he cast a thoughtful glance towards the mountain.

“Is it true,” he inquired, “that the profile of a human face may be discerned among the rocks near the summit?”

“True as the gospel,” answered the father; “and the Old Man of the Mountain watches over his children. We consider him our neighbor, and he sometimes nods to us when we look up from our work in the valley. He is a good neighbor, too, though he has his moods, and sometimes frowns upon us. But that is only when the weather is stormy.”

“Let us hope he will smile upon us to-night,” said the daughter, timidly.

“Ay,” replied her father, “let us hope so. But come, Esther; light our friend to his chamber. He must be tired with his day’s journey.”

The young man saw by the clock that it was near midnight. He expressed his thanks for their kindness, and followed the daughter to his sleeping apartment. It was a small room, partitioned off from the main apartment, and contained a decent bed, covered with a patchwork quilt. The walls were of rough boards, and the floor was bare. A small window looked out upon the Notch. As the girl placed the candle upon a chair, the guest looked round the room with a slight curl of the lip.

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“This is better than sleeping out of doors,” said he. “But it is a humble place for one who has such high hopes as I.”

The girl looked at him in surprise.

“High hopes?” she repeated. “And what may they be?”

“Listen, and I will tell you,” answered the young man. “I have left my home, and kindred, and friends, and set out upon a long journey. I am poor and obscure, and have no friend to help me forward. But I have ambition. I do not mean to live and die in this wilderness. I look forward to a time when my name shall be known throughout the land; when I shall sit in high places, and be honored among men. I seek for fame. Perhaps, centuries hence, when you and I are dust, some youth, travelling this same road, shall pause and say, ‘Here dwelt the ambitious guest. He passed one night in this humble cottage, but his spirit soared high above these mountains.’ This is my hope, my dream. It may be a vain one; but it cheers me on my way.”

The girl listened with breathless attention. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled.

“It is a noble ambition!” she exclaimed. “And I hope you may attain it. But is it not a lonely path you have chosen?”

“Lonely?” replied the young man. “Yes; it is lonely now. But hereafter I shall have companions enough,—friends, followers, flatterers. And perhaps,” he added, smiling, “I may find one true heart to share my fame and fortune.”

He looked earnestly at the girl as he spoke. Her eyes sank beneath his gaze, and a deep blush overspread her face and neck. She turned away, and began to arrange the bedclothes.

“You must be weary,” she said, in a low voice. “Good-night.”

“Good-night, fair Esther,” replied the guest. “May your dreams be as pleasant as mine are ambitious!”

---

He watched her till she had closed the door, and then threw himself upon the bed. But he could not sleep. His mind was filled with visions of the future. He saw himself rising step by step, overcoming obstacles, achieving triumphs, until he reached the summit of his hopes. He heard the applause of multitudes; he felt the pressure of friendly hands; he saw the smiles of beauty. Then his thoughts recurred to the family in the cottage,—the simple-minded husbandman, the thrifty housewife, the laughing children, the venerable grandmother, and the lovely daughter. He pictured them dwelling peacefully in their secluded home, contented with their humble lot, and fearing nothing but the wrath of the mountain.

“Poor souls!” thought he. “They live and die in this narrow spot, and the great world knows nothing of them. Their joys and sorrows are confined within these rocky walls. Yet, perhaps, they are happier than I shall ever be, with all my fame.”

He sighed, and turned restlessly upon his pillow. The storm still raged without, and the wind howled through the Notch like a troop of fiends. At times, the sound of falling stones could be heard, distinct from the roar of the tempest. The young man trembled, not for himself, but for the family. What if the mountain should fall upon them? What if the slide, which the wise ones had predicted, should come down that very night?

He rose from his bed, and looked out of the window. The darkness was intense. Nothing could be seen but the black outline of the opposite precipice. He listened intently. The wind seemed to lull for a moment, and then he heard a deep, rumbling sound, that grew louder and louder, and seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. It was the sound of the slide!

“Awake! awake!” shouted the young man, rushing from his room. “The mountain is falling!”

The family started from their sleep, bewildered and terrified. The father seized his axe; the mother caught up her youngest child; the grandmother grasped her knitting; the daughter clung to the arm of the guest.

“To the cellar!” cried the father. “It is our only place of safety!”

They rushed towards the cellar door, but it was too late. With a crash like thunder, the slide came down, sweeping everything before it. The cottage was crushed like an eggshell. The hearth, where the fire had blazed so cheerfully, was buried beneath tons of rock and earth. The spot where the family had dwelt in peace and contentment became a scene of ruin and desolation.

The next morning, the sun rose clear and bright upon the White Hills. Travellers passing through the Notch paused in horror at the sight that met their eyes. The slide had swept down the mountain side, blocking up the road, and changing the whole aspect of the valley. Of the cottage, not a vestige remained, except a few splintered boards. The bodies of the family and the guest were found buried beneath the ruins, clasped in each other’s arms. The father held his axe; the mother her child; the grandmother her knitting; the daughter clung to the stranger. The ambitious guest had found fame, indeed; but it was the fame of a common calamity. His name was unknown; his history was a blank; his high hopes were buried with him in the Notch of the White Hills. Centuries have passed away; the slide is still pointed out to travellers; the story of the ambitious guest is still told by the fireside; but his name, his origin, his destiny, are alike forgotten. He died, as he had lived, a nameless wanderer.