Twice-told tales
had formerly hung down before the picture until the duskiness of time
had so effectually concealed it. But, after all, it was the most
singular part of the affair that so many of the pompous governors of
Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the
state-chamber of the province-house.
“Some of these fables are really awful,” observed Alice Vane, who had
occasionally shuddered as well as smiled while her cousin spoke. “It
would be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the
canvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those
which fancy paints instead of it.”
“But would it be possible,” inquired her cousin,” to restore this dark
picture to its pristine hues?”
“Such arts are known in Italy,” said Alice.
The lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood,
and listened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives.
Yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones when he undertook the
explanation of the mystery.
“I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you
are so fond,” remarked he, “but my antiquarian researches have long
since made me acquainted with the subject of this picture—if picture it
can be called—which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face
of the long-buried man whom it once represented. It was the portrait of
Edward Randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the
history of New England.”
“Of that Edward Randolph,” exclaimed Captain Lincoln, “who obtained the
repeal of the first provincial charter, under which our forefathers had
enjoyed almost democratic privileges—he that was styled the arch-enemy
of New England, and whose memory is still held in detestation as the
destroyer of our liberties?”
“It was the same Randolph,” answered Hutchinson, moving uneasily in his
chair. “It was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium.”
“Our annals tell us,” continued the captain of Castle William, “that
the curse of the people followed this Randolph where he went and
wrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its
effect was seen, likewise, in the manner of his death. They say, too,
that the inward misery of that curse worked itself outward and was
visible on the wretched man’s countenance, making it too horrible to be
looked upon. If so, and if this picture truly represented his aspect,
it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered over it.”
“These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, how
little of historic truth lies at the bottom,” said the
lieutenant-governor. “As regards the life and character of Edward
Randolph, too implicit credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather,
who—I must say it, though some of his blood runs in my veins—has filled
our early history with old women’s tales as fanciful and extravagant as
those of Greece or Rome.”
“And yet,” whispered Alice Vane, “may not such fables have a moral? And
methinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not
without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the
province-house. When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were
well that they should be reminded of the awful weight of a people’s
curse.”
The lieutenant-governor started and gazed for a moment at his niece, as
if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast
which all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. He knew,
indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign education, retained the
native sympathies of a New England girl.
“Peace, silly child!” cried he, at last, more harshly than he had ever
before addressed the gentle Alice. “The rebuke of a king; is more to be
dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude.—Captain
Lincoln, it is decided: the fortress of Castle William must be occupied
by the royal troops. The two remaining regiments shall be billeted in
the town or encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years of
tumult, and almost rebellion, that His Majesty’s government should have
a wall of strength about it.”
“Trust, sir—trust yet a while to the loyalty of the people,” said
Captain Lincoln, “nor teach them that they can ever be on other terms
with British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought
side by side through the French war. Do not convert the streets of your
native town into a camp. Think twice before you give up old Castle
William, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of
true-born New Englanders.”
“Young man, it is decided,” repeated Hutchinson, rising from his chair.
“A British officer will be in attendance this evening to receive the
necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. Your presence
also will be required. Till then, farewell.”
With these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, while
Alice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and
once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. The captain of
Castle William fancied that the girl’s air and mien were such as might
have belonged to one of those spirits of fable—fairies or creatures of
a more antique mythology—who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal
affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe.
As he held the door for her to pass Alice beckoned to the picture and
smiled.
“Come forth, dark and evil shape!” cried she. “It is thine hour.”
In the evening Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber
where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons
whose various interests had summoned them together. There were the
selectmen of Boston—plain patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent
representatives of the old puritanical founders whose sombre strength
had stamped so deep an impress upon the New England character.
Contrasting with these were one or two members of council, richly
dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats and other
magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of
courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the
British army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor’s orders for the landing
of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. The
captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson’s chair, with folded
arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer by whom he was
soon to be superseded in his command. On a table in the centre of the
chamber stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of
half a dozen waxlights upon a paper apparently ready for the
lieutenant-governor’s signature.
Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains,
which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of
a lady’s robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been
there at such a time, but there was something so childlike, so wayward,
in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her
presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the
chairman of the selectmen was addressing to the lieutenant-governor a
long and solemn protest against the reception of the British troops
into the town.
“And if Your Honor,” concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy old
gentleman, “shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary
sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the
responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop
of blood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon Your
Honor’s memory. You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of
our forefathers; the more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself
should deserve honorable mention as a true patriot and upright ruler
when your own doings shall be written down in history.”
“I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well
in the annals of my country,” replied Hutchinson, controlling his
impatience into courtesy, “nor know I any better method of attaining
that end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief
which, with your pardon, seems to have infected older men than myself.
Would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the province-house as
they did my private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when you
will be glad to flee for protection to the king’s banner, the raising
of which is now so distasteful to you.”
“Yes,” said the British major, who was impatiently expecting the
lieutenant-governor’s orders. “The demagogues of this province have
raised the devil, and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him in
God’s name and the king’s.”
“If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws,” answered the
captain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen.
“Craving your pardon, young sir,” said the venerable selectman, “let
not an evil spirit enter into your words. We will strive against the
oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done.
Like them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providence
may send us—always after our own best exertions to amend it.”
“And there peep forth the devil’s claws!” muttered Hutchinson, who well
understood the nature of Puritan submission. “This matter shall be
expedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every corner and
a court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman may venture
to walk abroad. What to me is the outcry of a mob in this remote
province of the realm? The king is my master, and England is my
country; upheld by their armed strength, I set my foot upon the rabble
and defy them.”
He snatched a pen and was about to affix his signature to the paper
that lay on the table, when the captain of Castle William placed his
hand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to the
ceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity,
awakened general surprise, and in none more than in the
lieutenant-governor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his
young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall.
Hutchinson’s eye followed the signal, and he saw what had hitherto been
unobserved—that a black silk curtain was suspended before the
mysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts
immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon, and in
his surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his
niece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon
her:
“Alice! Come hither, Alice!”
No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station, and,
pressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the
sable curtain that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise
burst from every beholder, but the lieutenant-governor’s voice had a
tone of horror.
“By Heaven!” said he, in a low inward murmur, speaking rather to
himself than to those around him; “if the spirit of Edward Randolph
were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear
more of the terrors of hell upon his face.”
“For some wise end,” said the aged selectman, solemnly, “hath
Providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this
dreadful effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what we
behold.”
Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable waste
of canvas now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in its
hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a
half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned
dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing
a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud
the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike. The whole