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.