Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
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.
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 dispatches 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 Doctor 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."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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