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Updated: June 19, 2025
When they rose from the table, Rantoul passed his arm about his wife and said something in her ear, at which she smiled and patted his hand. "I am very proud of my husband, Mr. Herkimer," she said with a little bob of her head in which was a sense of proprietorship. "You'll see." "Suppose we stroll out for a little smoke in the garden," said Rantoul.
Rantoul's credentials sent to him, as he should feel unpleasant if they were sent to any one else. Accordingly they were so sent. In a few days Mr. Lincoln called and said that Mr. Winthrop wished to know whether he should present the credentials at once, or hold them until Mr. Rantoul appeared.
"And the sketches?" "They were not what I wanted," said Rantoul with a little laugh; "but they were not bad. When I returned here and opened my studio, it began to be difficult. She could not understand that I wanted to work eighteen hours a day. She begged for my afternoons. I gave in. She embraced me frantically and said; 'Oh, how good you are!
"Isn't there too much money?" "Not for Rantoul." "He's a rebel." "You'll see; he'll stir up the world with it." Herkimer himself had approved of the marriage in a whole-hearted way. The childlike ways of Tina Glover had convinced him, and as he was concerned only with the future of his friend, he agreed with the rest that nothing luckier could have happened.
He adored being poor. When his canvas gave out, he painted his ankles to caricature the violent creations that were the pride of Chatterton, who was a nabob. When his credit at one restaurant expired, he strode confidently up to another proprietor, and announced with the air of one bestowing a favor: "I am Rantoul, the portrait-painter.
"Well, by Jove!" said Steingall, recovering first from the spell of the story, "doesn't that prove exactly what I said? They're jealous, they're all jealous, I tell you, jealous of everything you do. All they want us to do is to adore them. By Jove! Herkimer's right. Rantoul was the biggest of us all. She murdered him just as much as though she had put a knife in him."
He was afterwards elected to the House of Representatives from the Essex District, and died while a member at the age of forty-seven years. His death was a serious loss to the anti-slavery Democrats of Massachusetts and the country. He was one of the three distinguished men that the county of Essex has produced in his century: Choate, Cushing and Rantoul.
He adorned his speech and gave effect to his oratory by the introduction of the shoe-buckles which Davis wore, and the powder horn which another of the victims carried on the day of the fight. The appropriation was granted. The preceding year the town of Concord had celebrated the seventy-fifth anniversary of the battle. Robert Rantoul, Jr., delivered the oration.
"You may go." He stood at the window, in the long evening hour of the June day, frowning to himself. "By George! I've a mind to clear out," he said, thoroughly angry. At this moment there came a vigorous rap, and Rantoul in slippers and lilac dressing-gown broke in, with hair still wet from his shower.
What do you think of that? Nothing finer. Well, tell me what you're doing." Herkimer relented before the familiar rush of enthusiasm and questions, and the conversation began on a natural footing. He looked at Rantoul, aware of the social change that had taken place in him. The old aggressiveness, the look of the wolf, had gone; about him was an enthusiastic urbanity.
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