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Updated: May 3, 2025
He thought of the empty chorister's robe in the little cell, but not now with regret. He only trembled to think of the flesh that he had once caused to inhabit it. "That's all, gentlemen," broke in the practical voice of Cranch. "Whether there are proofs enough to make Francisca the heiress of her father's wealth, the lawyers must say.
"And the clothes, friend Cranch?" said the priest, with his eyes still on the ground, and a slight assumption of easy indifference. "They will be forthcoming, like enough, when the time comes," said Cranch; "the main thing at first was to find the girl; that was MY job; the lawyers, I reckon, can fit the proofs and say what's wanted, later on."
The thrill of happiness that had quivered through him for days, intensified by this new heaven of Bohemia, vibrated in every note he uttered. The effect was equally startling on those about him. Cranch craned his head, and for once lowered his voice to a whisper in speaking to the man next him.
Her mind was like a fresh canvas; I could paint whatever I chose upon it, and loving her, I painted none but beautiful pictures, pictures of the divine things that were still left in the violated mortal sanctuary of the soul of Mortimer Cranch. What did I accomplish by spreading all the fruits of my education and my familiarity with refinement before her?
"It began when you left the house!" cried Cranch. "I've always watched on and off since you married her. I'm her father. I've loved her as no one knows. It was my right to watch. I've been nearly mad with worry. What have you done to her? You have dug me out of the grave, I tell you. Now we're face to face. What have you done with my girl?" The lonely, ruined man had thrown his arms forward.
How many lives have melted into the history of their time, as the gold was lost in Corinthian brass, leaving no separate monumental trace of their influence, but adding weight and color and worth to the age of which they formed a part and the generations that came after them! We can dare to predict of Emerson, in the words of his old friend and disciple, Mr. Cranch:
Are you sure it is not pity for the deceit you practiced upon me upon Don Juan upon poor Father Pedro?" It seemed as if Cranch had tried to answer with a kiss, for the girl drew suddenly away from him with a coquettish fling of the black braids, and whipped her little brown hands behind her.
The American, who had uncovered in deference to the worshiper rather than the rite, waited patiently. The eyes of Father Pedro returned to the earth, moist as if with dew caught from above. He looked half absently at Cranch. "Forgive me, my son," he said, in a changed voice. "I am only a worn old man. I must talk with thee more of this but not to-night not to-night; to-morrow to-morrow to-morrow."
He thought he had confessed the secret of the child's sex to Cranch, but whether the next morning or a week later he did not know. He fancied, too, that Cranch had also confessed some trifling deception to him, but what, or why, he could not remember; so much greater seemed the enormity of his own transgression.
This, however, did not take place at once, and when Emerson's "Nature" was published, Cranch was at first repelled by the peculiarity of its style. At the house of Rev. James Freeman Clark, in Cincinnati, he drew some innocently satirical illustrations of it.
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