Twice-told tales
portrait started so distinctly out of the background that it had the
effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and
awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any words can
convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous
guilt and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn
of a vast surrounding multitude. There was the struggle of defiance,
beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. The
torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as
if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had
been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of
expression, till now it gloomed forth again and threw its evil omen
over the present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited, was
the portrait of Edward Randolph as he appeared when a people’s curse
had wrought its influence upon his nature.
“’Twould drive me mad, that awful face,” said Hutchinson, who seemed
fascinated by the contemplation of it.
“Be warned, then,” whispered Alice. “He trampled on a people’s rights.
Behold his punishment, and avoid a crime like his.”
The lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant, but, exerting
his energy—which was not, however, his most characteristic feature—he
strove to shake off the spell of Randolph’s countenance.
“Girl,” cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, “have you
brought hither your painter’s art, your Italian spirit of intrigue,
your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils of
rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? See
here!”
“Stay yet a while,” said the selectman as Hutchinson again snatched the
pen; “for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul,
Your Honor is that man.”
“Away!” answered Hutchinson, fiercely. “Though yonder senseless picture
cried ‘Forbear!rsquo; it should not move me!”
Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face—which seemed at that
moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look—he
scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of
desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he
shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation.
“It is done,” said he, and placed his hand upon his brow.
“May Heaven forgive the deed!” said the soft, sad accents of Alice
Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.
When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household,
and spreading thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture
had started from the wall and spoken face to face with
Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought,
however, no traces of it remained behind; for within the antique frame
nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had
covered the canvas since the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed,
stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and
hidden itself behind a century’s obscurity. The truth probably was that
Alice Vane’s secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely
effected a temporary renovation. But those who in that brief interval
had beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph desired no second
glance, and ever afterward trembled at the recollection of the scene,
as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. And, as for
Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying-hour drew on, he gasped
for breath and complained that he was choking with the blood of the
Boston Massacre, and Francis Lincoln, the former captain of Castle
William, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his
frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel at
that dread hour the tremendous burden of a people’s curse?
At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of mine host
whether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, but
Mr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was
supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the New England
Museum. Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and,
with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply a
not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.
During the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad and
raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the Province
House that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were
running riot above stairs while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below.
In the course of generations, when many people have lived and died in
an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through its crannies and
the creaking of its beams and rafters become strangely like the tones
of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading
the deserted chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a century were
revived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our
ears when I took leave of the circle round the fireside of the Province
House and, plunging down the doorsteps, fought my way homeward against
a drifting snow-storm.
III.
LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE
Mine excellent friend the landlord of the Province House was pleased
the other evening to invite Mr. Tiffany and myself to an oyster-supper.
This slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed,
was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and I, the humble
note-taker of his narratives, had fairly earned by the public notice
which our joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. Many a
cigar had been smoked within his premises, many a glass of wine or more
potent _aqua vitæ_ had been quaffed, many a dinner had been eaten, by
curious strangers who, save for the fortunate conjunction of Mr.
Tiffany and me, would never have ventured through that darksome avenue
which gives access to the historic precincts of the Province House. In
short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of Mr. Thomas
Waite, we had brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into
public view as if we had thrown down the vulgar range of shoe-shops and
dry-good stores which hides its aristocratic front from Washington
street. It may be unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the
increased custom of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find it difficult
to renew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore.
Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany nor myself felt
any scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were set
before us. If the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled
walls had witnessed in a bygone century; if mine host presided with
somewhat less of state than might have befitted a successor of the
royal governors; if the guests made a less imposing show than the
bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries who erst banqueted at
the gubernatorial table and now sleep within their armorial tombs on
Copp’s Hill or round King’s Chapel,—yet never, I may boldly say, did a
more comfortable little party assemble in the province-house from Queen
Anne’s days to the Revolution. The occasion was rendered more
interesting by the presence of a venerable personage whose own actual
reminiscences went back to the epoch of Gage and Howe, and even
supplied him with a doubtful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one
of that small, and now all but extinguished, class whose attachment to
royalty, and to the colonial institutions and customs that were
connected with it, had never yielded to the democratic heresies of
after-times. The young queen of Britain has not a more loyal subject in
her realm—perhaps not one who would kneel before her throne with such
reverential love—as this old grandsire whose head has whitened beneath
the mild sway of the republic which still in his mellower moments he
terms a usurpation. Yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him an
ungentle or impracticable companion. If the truth must be told, the
life of the aged loyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled
character—he has had so little choice of friends and been so often
destitute of any—that I doubt whether he would refuse a cup of kindness
with either Oliver Cromwell or John Hancock, to say nothing of any
democrat now upon the stage. In another paper of this series I may
perhaps give the reader a closer glimpse of his portrait.
Our host in due season uncorked a bottle of Madeira of such exquisite
perfume and admirable flavor that he surely must have discovered it in
an ancient bin down deep beneath the deepest cellar where some jolly
old butler stored away the governor’s choicest wine and forgot to
reveal the secret on his death-bed. Peace to his red-nosed ghost and a
libation to his memory! This precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. Tiffany
with peculiar zest, and after sipping the third glass it was his
pleasure to give us one of the oddest legends which he had yet raked
from the storehouse where he keeps such matters. With some suitable
adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as follows.
Not long after Colonel Shute had assumed the government of
Massachusetts Bay—now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago—a young
lady of rank and fortune arrived from England to claim his protection
as her guardian. He was her distant relative, but the nearest who had
survived the gradual extinction of her family; so that no more eligible
shelter could be found for the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe than within the province-house of a Transatlantic colony.
The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, had been as a mother to her
childhood, and was now anxious to receive her in the hope that a
beautiful young woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril from
the primitive society of New England than amid the artifices and
corruptions of a court. If either the governor or his lady had
especially consulted their own comfort, they would probably have sought
to devolve the responsibility on other hands, since with some noble and
splendid traits of character Lady Eleanore was remarkable for a harsh,
unyielding pride, a haughty consciousness of her hereditary and
personal advantages, which made her almost incapable of control.
Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was
hardly less than a monomania; or if the acts which it inspired were
those of a sane person, it seemed due from Providence that pride so
sinful should be followed by as severe a retribution. That tinge of the
marvellous which is thrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends
has probably imparted an additional wildness to the strange story of
Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe.
The ship in which she came passenger had arrived at Newport, whence
Lady Eleanore was conveyed to Boston in the governor’s coach, attended
by a small escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous equipage,
with its four black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through
Cornhill surrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers
with swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their holsters.
Through the large glass windows of the coach, as it rolled along, the
people could discern the figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining
an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in
her teens. A singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies of the
province that their fair rival was indebted for much of the
irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress—an
embroidered mantle—which had been wrought by the most skilful artist in
London, and possessed even magical properties of adornment. On the
present occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress,