Twice-Told Tales (32 page)

"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he was soon to be superseded in his command.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 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!' 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.

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.