Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating
her mind by a proper reference to present things, Esther Dudley appears
to have grown partially crazed. It was found that she had no right
sense of the progress and true state of the Revolutionary war, but held
a constant faith that the armies of Britain were victorious on every
field and destined to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town
rejoiced for a battle won by Washington or Gates or Morgan or Greene,
the news, in passing through the door of the province-house as through
the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale of
the prowess of Howe, Clinton or Cornwallis. Sooner or later, it was her
invincible belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of
the king. Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was
already the case. On one occasion she startled the townspeople by a
brilliant illumination of the province-house with candles at every pane
of glass and a transparency of the king’s initials and a crown of light
in the great balcony-window. The figure of the aged woman in the most
gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades was seen passing from
casement to casement, until she paused before the balcony and
flourished a huge key above her head. Her wrinkled visage actually
gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal lamp.
“What means this blaze of light? What does old Esther’s joy portend?”
whispered a spectator. “It is frightful to see her gliding about the
chambers and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.”
“It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,” said another.
“Pshaw! It is no such mystery,” observed an old man, after some brief
exercise of memory. “Mistress Dudley is keeping jubilee for the king of
England’s birthday.”
Then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown mud against the
blazing transparency of the king’s crown and initials, only that they
pitied the poor old dame who was so dismally triumphant amid the wreck
and ruin of the system to which she appertained.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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