“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.”
[Illustration:
Alice beckoned to the picture.
]
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be superseded in his command.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 wax lights 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
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.”
[Illustration:
“The Chairman of the Selectmen was addressing to the
Lieutenant-Governor a Long and Solemn Protest”
]
“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 elder 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!”
[Illustration:
She snatched away the sable curtain.
]
“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 life-like. The whole 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 awestricken
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 awhile,” 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!’ 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.
[Illustration]
“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 afterwards
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.
[Illustration: LADYE ELEANORES MANTLE]
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 shoeshops and
dry-goods 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—than 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 desirable 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, being clad in a riding-habit
of velvet, which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other
form.
[Illustration:
Y^e beauteous Ladye Eleanore cometh to Boston—
]
[Illustration:
“A Pale Young Man ... prostrated himself beside the Coach”
]
The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade
came to a pause in front of the contorted iron balustrade that fenced
the Province House from the public street. It was an awkward coincidence
that the bell of the Old South was just then tolling for a funeral; so
that, instead of a gladsome peal, with which it was customary to
announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had come
embodied in her beautiful person.
“A very great disrespect!” exclaimed Captain Langford, an English
officer, who had recently brought despatches to Governor Shute. “The
funeral should have been deferred, lest Lady Eleanore’s spirits be
affected by such a dismal welcome.”
“With your pardon, sir,” replied Dr. Clarke, a physician, and a famous
champion of the popular party, “whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead
beggar must have precedence of a living queen. King Death confers high
privileges.”
These remarks were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage
through the crowd, which had gathered on each side of the gateway,
leaving an open avenue to the portal of the Province House. A black
slave in livery now leaped from behind the coach, and threw open the
door; while at the same moment Governor Shute descended the flight of
steps from his mansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. But the
Governor’s stately approach was anticipated in a manner that excited
general astonishment. A pale young man, with his black hair all in
disorder, rushed from the throng, and prostrated himself beside the
coach, thus offering his person as a footstool for Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe to tread upon. She held back an instant; yet with an
expression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy to bear the
weight of her footstep, rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful
reverence from a fellow-mortal.
[Illustration:
Governor Shute descended the flight of steps.
]
“Up, sir,” said the Governor sternly, at the same time lifting his cane
over the intruder. “What means the Bedlamite by this freak?”
“Nay,” answered Lady Eleanore playfully, but with more scorn than pity
in her tone, “your Excellency shall not strike him. When men seek only
to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily
granted—and so well deserved.”
Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, she placed her foot
upon the cowering form, and extended her hand to meet that of the
Governor. There was a brief interval, during which Lady Eleanore
retained this attitude; and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of
aristocracy and hereditary pride trampling on human sympathies and the
kindred of nature than these two figures presented at that moment. Yet
the spectators were so smitten with her beauty, and so essential did
pride seem to the existence of such a creature, that they gave a
simultaneous acclamation of applause.
“Who is this insolent young fellow?” inquired Captain Langford, who
still remained beside Dr. Clarke. “If he be in his senses, his
impertinence demands the bastinado. If mad, Lady Eleanore should be
secured from further inconvenience, by his confinement.”
“His name is Jervase Helwyse,” answered the Doctor; “a youth of no birth
or fortune, or other advantages, save the mind and soul that nature gave
him; and, being secretary to our colonial agent in London, it was his
misfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved her,—and her
scorn has driven him mad.”
“He was mad so to aspire,” observed the English officer.
“It may be so,” said Dr. Clarke, frowning as he spoke. “But I tell you,
sir, I could well-nigh doubt the justice of the heaven above us, if no
signal humiliation overtake this lady, who now treads so haughtily into
yonder mansion. She seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our
common nature, which envelops all human souls. See, if that nature do
not assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level
with the lowest!”
“Never!” cried Captain Langford indignantly; “neither in life, nor when
they lay her with her ancestors.”