Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic
one: he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive
influences rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the
word. The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same
characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his
pulpit oratory, but there was something either in the sentiment of the
discourse itself or in the imagination of the auditors which made it
greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their
pastor's lips. It was tinged rather more darkly than usual with the
gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament. The subject had reference to
secret sin and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and
dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even
forgetting that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was
breathed into his words. Each member of the congregation, the most
innocent girl and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher
had crept upon them behind his awful veil and discovered their hoarded
iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their
bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said—at least,
no violence; and yet with every tremor of his melancholy voice the
hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So
sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their
minister that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil,
almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though
the form, gesture and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.
At the close of the services the people hurried out with indecorous
confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious
of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some
gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their
mouths all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, wrapped
in silent meditation; some talked loudly and profaned the Sabbath-day
with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious heads,
intimating that they could penetrate the mystery, while one or two
affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's
eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp as to require a shade.
After a brief interval forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of
his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid
due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with kind
dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with
mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on the little
children's heads to bless them. Such was always his custom on the
Sabbath-day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy.
None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their
pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders—doubtless by an accidental lapse
of memory—neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good
clergyman had been wont to bless the food almost every Sunday since
his settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and at the
moment of closing the door was observed to look back upon the people,
all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile
gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil and flickered about his
mouth, glimmering as he disappeared.
"How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any
woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on
Mr. Hooper's face!"
"Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper's intellects,"
observed her husband, the physician of the village. "But the strangest
part of the affair is the effect of this vagary even on a sober-minded
man like myself. The black veil, though it covers only our pastor's
face, throws its influence over his whole person and makes him
ghost-like from head to foot. Do you not feel it so?"
"Truly do I," replied the lady; "and I would not be alone with him for
the world. I wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself."
"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.