Twice-told tales
“Men sometimes are so,” said her husband.
The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its
conclusion the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The
relatives and friends were assembled in the house and the more distant
acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of
the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of Mr.
Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate
emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid,
and bent over the coffin to take a last farewell of his deceased
parishioner. As he stooped the veil hung straight down from his
forehead, so that, if her eye-lids had not been closed for ever, the
dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of
her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who
watched the interview between the dead and living scrupled not to
affirm that at the instant when the clergyman’s features were disclosed
the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap,
though the countenance retained the composure of death. A superstitious
old woman was the only witness of this prodigy.
From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and
thence to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was
a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued
with celestial hopes that the music of a heavenly harp swept by the
fingers of the dead seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest
accents of the minister. The people trembled, though they but darkly
understood him, when he prayed that they and himself, and all of mortal
race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the
dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers
went heavily forth and the mourners followed, saddening all the street,
with the dead before them and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind.
“Why do you look back?” said one in the procession to his partner.
“I had a fancy,” replied she, “that the minister and the maiden’s
spirit were walking hand in hand.”
“And so had I at the same moment,” said the other.
That night the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined
in wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid
cheerfulness for such occasions which often excited a sympathetic smile
where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. There was no
quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. The
company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting
that the strange awe which had gathered over him throughout the day
would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper
came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible
black veil which had added deeper gloom to the funeral and could
portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate effect
on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath
the black crape and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair
stood up before the minister, but the bride’s cold fingers quivered in
the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her death-like paleness
caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before
was come from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding were so
dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding-knell.
After performing the ceremony Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his
lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild
pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests
like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a
glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved his
own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His
frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon
the carpet and rushed forth into the darkness, for the Earth too had on
her black veil.
The next day the whole village of Milford talked of little else than
Parson Hooper’s black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it,
supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the
street and good women gossipping at their open windows. It was the
first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. The
children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little imp
covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting
his playmates that the panic seized himself and he wellnigh lost his
wits by his own waggery.
It was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and impertinent people in
the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper
wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the
slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers nor
shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred at
all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust that even the
mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a
crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no
individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a
subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, neither
plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift
the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient
to send a deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper
about the mystery before it should grow into a scandal. Never did an
embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister received them with
friendly courtesy, but became silent after they were seated, leaving to
his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business.
The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. There was the
black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper’s forehead and concealing every
feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive
the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that piece of crape, to their
imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a
fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they
might speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a
considerable time, speechless, confused and shrinking uneasily from Mr.
Hooper’s eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible
glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents,
pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled except by a council of
the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a General Synod.
But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with
which the black veil had impressed all besides herself. When the
deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand
one, she with the calm energy of her character determined to chase away
the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper every
moment more darkly than before. As his plighted wife it should be her
privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At the minister’s
first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct
simplicity which made the task easier both for him and her. After he
had seated himself she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but
could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the
multitude; it was but a double fold of crape hanging down from his
forehead to his mouth and slightly stirring with his breath.
“No,” said she, aloud, and smiling, “there is nothing terrible in this
piece of crape, except that it hides a face which I am always glad to
look upon. Come, good sir; let the sun shine from behind the cloud.
First lay aside your black veil, then tell me why you put it on.”
Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly.
“There is an hour to come,” said he, “when all of us shall cast aside
our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of
crape till then.”
“Your words are a mystery too,” returned the young lady. “Take away the
veil from them, at least.”
“Elizabeth, I will,” said he, “so far as my vow may suffer me. Know,
then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever,
both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of
multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No
mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me
from the world; even you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it.”
“What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” she earnestly inquired,
“that you should thus darken your eyes for ever?”
“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. Hooper, “I, perhaps, like
most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black
veil.”
“But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an
innocent sorrow?” urged Elizabeth. “Beloved and respected as you are,
there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness
of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office do away this scandal.”
The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the
rumors that were already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper’s
mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled again—that same sad smile
which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light proceeding from
the obscurity beneath the veil.
“If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough,” he merely
replied; “and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do
the same?” And with this gentle but unconquerable obstinacy did he
resist all her entreaties.
At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in
thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to
withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other
meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer
character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. But in an
instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes
were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when like a sudden twilight in
the air its terrors fell around her. She arose and stood trembling
before him.
“And do you feel it, then, at last?” said he, mournfully.
She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand and turned to
leave the room. He rushed forward and caught her arm.
“Have patience with me, Elizabeth!” cried he, passionately. “Do not
desert me though this veil must be between us here on earth. Be mine,
and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between
our souls. It is but a mortal veil; it is not for eternity. Oh, you
know not how lonely I am, and how frightened to be alone behind my
black veil! Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity for ever.”
“Lift the veil but once and look me in the face,” said she.
“Never! It cannot be!” replied Mr. Hooper.
“Then farewell!” said Elizabeth.
She withdrew her arm from his grasp and slowly departed, pausing at the
door to give one long, shuddering gaze that seemed almost to penetrate
the mystery of the black veil. But even amid his grief Mr. Hooper
smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from
happiness, though the horrors which it shadowed forth must be drawn
darkly between the fondest of lovers.
From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper’s black veil
or by a direct appeal to discover the secret which it was supposed to
hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice it was
reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober
actions of men otherwise rational and tinges them all with its own
semblance of insanity. But with the multitude good Mr. Hooper was
irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk the street with any peace of
mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to