Doctor Grimshawe's Secret — a Romance

“What are you?” he exclaimed. “Where am I?”

The old figure made no answer; nor could Redclyffe be quite sure that his voice had any effect upon it, though he fancied that it was shaken a little, as if his voice came to it from afar. But it continued to gaze at him, or at least to have its aged face turned towards him in the dim light; and this strange composure, and unapproachableness, were very frightful. As his manhood gathered about his heart, however, the American endeavored to shake off this besetting fear, or awe, or whatever it was; and to bring himself to a sense of waking things, — to burst through the mist and delusive shows that bewildered him, and catch hold of a reality. He stamped upon the floor; it was solid stone, the pavement, or oak so old and stanch that it resembled it. There was one firm thing, therefore. But the contrast between this and the slipperiness, the unaccountableness, of the rest of his position, made him the more sensible of the latter. He made a step towards the old figure; another; another. He was face to face with him, within a yard of distance. He saw the faint movement of the old man’s breath; he sought, through the twilight of the room, some glimmer of perception in his eyes.

“Are you a living man?” asked Redclyffe, faintly and doubtfully.

He mumbled, the old figure, some faint moaning sound, that, if it were language at all, had all the edges and angles worn off it by decay, — unintelligible, except that it seemed to signify a faint mournfulness and complainingness of mood; and then held his peace, continuing to gaze as before. Redclyffe could not bear the awe that filled him, while he kept at a distance, and, coming desperately forward, he stood close to the old figure; he touched his robe, to see if it were real; he laid his hand upon the withered hand that held the staff, in which he now recognized the very staff of the Doctor’s legend. His fingers touched a real hand, though, bony and dry, as if it had been in the grave.

“Then you are real?” said Redclyffe doubtfully.

The old figure seemed to have exhausted itself — its energies, what there were of them — in the effort of making the unintelligible communication already vouchsafed. Then he seemed to lapse out of consciousness, and not to know what was passing, or to be sensible that any person was near him. But Redclyffe was now resuming his firmness and daylight consciousness even in the dimness. He ran over all that he had heard of the legend of the old house, rapidly considering whether there might not be something of fact in the legend of the undying old man; whether, as told or whispered in the chimney-corners, it might not be an instance of the mysterious, the half-spiritual mode, in which actual truths communicate themselves imperfectly through a medium that gives them the aspect of falsehood. Something in the atmosphere of the house made its inhabitants and neighbors dimly aware that there was a secret resident; it was by a language not audible, but of impression; there could not be such a secret in its recesses, without making itself sensible. This legend of the undying one translated it to vulgar apprehension. He remembered those early legends, told by the Doctor, in his childhood; he seemed imperfectly and doubtfully to see what was their true meaning, and how, taken aright, they had a reality, and were the craftily concealed history of his own wrongs, sufferings, and revenge. And this old man! who was he? He joined the Warden’s account of the family to the Doctor’s legends. He could not believe, or take thoroughly in, the strange surmise to which they led him; but, by an irresistible impulse, he acted on it.

“Sir Edward Redclyffe!” he exclaimed.

“Ha! who speaks to me?” exclaimed the old man, in a startled voice, like one who hears himself called at an unexpected moment.

“Sir Edward Redclyffe,” repeated Redclyffe, “I bring you news of Norman Oglethorpe!” [Endnote: 3.]

“The villain! the tyrant! mercy! mercy! save me!” cried the old man, in most violent emotion of terror and rage intermixed, that shook his old frame as if it would be shaken asunder. He stood erect, the picture of ghastly horror, as if he saw before him that stern face that had thrown a blight over his life, and so fearfully avenged, from youth to age, the crime that he had committed. The effect, the passion, was too much, — the terror with which it smote, the rage that accompanied it, blazed up for a moment with a fierce flame, then flickered and went out. He stood tottering; Redclyffe put out his hand to support him; but he sank down in a heap on the floor, as if a thing of dry bones had been suddenly loosened at the joints, and fell in a rattling heap. [Endnote: 4.]

CHAPTER XXV

Redclyffe, apparently, had not communicated to his agent in London his change of address, when he left the Warden’s residence to avail himself of the hospitality of Braithwaite Hall; for letters arrived for him, from his own country, both private and with the seal of state upon them; one among the rest that bore on the envelope the name of the President of the United States. The good Warden was impressed with great respect for so distinguished a signature, and, not knowing but that the welfare of the Republic (for which he had an Englishman’s contemptuous interest) might be involved in its early delivery at its destination, he determined to ride over to Braithwaite Hall, call on his friend, and deliver it with his own hand. With this purpose, he mounted his horse, at the hour of his usual morning ride, and set forth; and, before reaching the village, saw a figure before him which he recognized as that of the pensioner. [Endnote: 1.]

“Soho! whither go you, old friend?” said the Warden, drawing his bridle as he came up with the old man.

“To Braithwaite Hall, sir,” said the pensioner, who continued to walk diligently on; “and I am glad to see your honor (if it be so) on the same errand.”

“Why so?” asked the Warden. “You seem much in earnest. Why should my visit to Braithwaite Hall be a special cause of rejoicing?”

“Nay,” said the pensioner, “your honor is specially interested in this young American, who has gone thither to abide; and when one is in a strange country he needs some guidance. My mind is not easy about the young man.”

“Well,” said the Warden, smiling to himself at the old gentleman’s idle and senile fears, “I commend your diligence on behalf of your friend.”

He rode on as he spoke, and deep in one of the woodland paths he saw the flutter of a woman’s garment, and, greatly to his surprise, overtook Elsie, who seemed to be walking along with great rapidity, and, startled by the approach of hoofs behind her, looked up at him, with a pale cheek.

“Good morning, Miss Elsie,” said the Warden. “You are taking a long walk this morning. I regret to see that I have frightened you.”

“Pray, whither are you going?” said she.

“To the Hall,” said the Warden, wondering at the abrupt question.

“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Elsie, “for Heaven’s sake, pray insist on seeing Mr. Redclyffe, — take no excuse. There are reasons for it.”

“Certainly, fair lady,” responded the Warden, wondering more and more at this injunction from such a source. “And when I see this fascinating gentleman, pray what message am I to give him from Miss Elsie, — who, moreover, seems to be on the eve of visiting him in person?”

“See him! see him! Only see him!” said Elsie, with passionate earnestness, “and in haste! See him now!”

She waved him onward as she spoke; and the Warden, greatly commoted for the nonce, complied with the maiden’s fantasy so far as to ride on at a quicker pace, uneasily marvelling at what could have aroused this usually shy and reserved girl’s nervousness to such a pitch. The incident served at all events to titillate his English sluggishness; so that he approached the avenue of the old Hall with a vague expectation of something that had happened there, though he knew not of what nature it could possibly be. However, he rode round to the side entrance, by which horsemen generally entered the house, and, a groom approaching to take his bridle, he alighted and approached the door. I know not whether it were anything more than the glistening moisture common in an English autumnal morning; but so it was, that the trace of the Bloody Footstep seemed fresh, as if it had been that very night imprinted anew, and the crime made all over again, with fresh guilt upon somebody’s soul.

When the footman came to the door, responsive to his ring, the Warden inquired for Mr. Redclyffe, the American gentleman.

“The American gentleman left for London, early this morning,” replied the footman, in a matter-of-fact way.

“Gone!” exclaimed the Warden. “This is sudden; and strange that he should go without saying good by. Gone,” and then he remembered the old pensioner’s eagerness that the Warden should come here, and Elsie’s strange injunction that he should insist on seeing Redclyffe. “Pray, is Lord Braithwaite at home?”

“I think, sir, he is in the library,” said the servant, “but will see; pray, sir, walk in.”

He returned in a moment, and ushered the Warden through passages with which he was familiar of old, to the library, where he found Lord Braithwaite sitting with the London newspaper in his hand. He rose and welcomed his guest with great equanimity.

To the Warden’s inquiries after Redclyffe, Lord Braithwaite replied that his guest had that morning left the house, being called to London by letters from America; but of what nature Lord Braithwaite was unable to say, except that they seemed to be of urgency and importance. The Warden’s further inquiries, which he pushed as far as was decorous, elicited nothing more than this; and he was preparing to take his leave, — not seeing any reason for insisting (according to Elsie’s desire) on the impossibility of seeing a man who was not there, — nor, indeed, any reason for so doing. And yet it seemed very strange that Redclyffe should have gone so unceremoniously; nor was he half satisfied, though he knew not why he should be otherwise.

“Do you happen to know Mr. Redclyffe’s address in London,” asked the Warden.

“Not at all,” said Braithwaite. “But I presume there is courtesy enough in the American character to impel him to write to me, or both of us, within a day or two, telling us of his whereabouts and whatabouts. Should you know, I beg you will let me know; for I have really been pleased with this gentleman, and should have been glad could he have favored me with a somewhat longer visit.”

There was nothing more to be said; and the Warden took his leave, and was about mounting his horse, when he beheld the pensioner approaching the house, and he remained standing until he should come up.

“You are too late,” said he, as the old man drew near. “Our friend has taken French leave.”

“Mr. Warden,” said the old man solemnly, “let me pray you not to give him up so easily. Come with me into the presence of Lord Braithwaite.”

The Warden made some objections; but the pensioner’s manner was so earnest, that he soon consented; knowing that the strangeness of his sudden return might well enough be put upon the eccentricities of the pensioner, especially as he was so well known to Lord Braithwaite. He accordingly again rang at the door, which being opened by the same stolid footman, the Warden desired him to announce to Lord Braithwaite that the Warden and a pensioner desired to see him. He soon returned, with a request that they would walk in, and ushered them again to the library, where they found the master of the house in conversation with Omskirk at one end of the apartment, — a whispered conversation, which detained him a moment, after their arrival. The Warden fancied that he saw in old Omskirk’s countenance a shade more of that mysterious horror which made him such a bugbear to children; but when Braithwaite turned from him and approached his visitor, there was no trace of any disturbance, beyond a natural surprise to see his good friend the Warden so soon after his taking leave. [Endnote: 2.]

“I see you are surprised,” said the latter. “But you must lay the blame, if any, on our good old friend here, who, for some reason, best known to himself, insisted on having my company here.”

Braithwaite looked to the old pensioner, with a questioning look, as if good-humoredly (yet not as if he cared much about it) asking for an explanation. As Omskirk was about leaving the room, having remained till this time, with that nervous look which distinguished him gazing towards the party, the pensioner made him a sign, which he obeyed as if compelled to do so.

“Well, my friend,” said the Warden, somewhat impatient of the aspect in which he himself appeared, “I beg of you, explain at once to Lord Braithwaite why you have brought me back in this strange way.”

“It is,” said the pensioner quietly, “that in your presence I request him to allow me to see Mr. Redclyffe.”

“Why, my friend,” said Braithwaite, “how can I show you a man who has left my house, and whom in the chances of this life, I am not very likely to see again, though hospitably desirous of so doing?”

Here ensued a laughing sort of colloquy between the Warden and Braithwaite, in which the former jocosely excused himself for having yielded to the whim of the pensioner, and returned with him on an errand which he well knew to be futile.

“I have long been aware,” he said apart, in a confidential way, “of something a little awry in our old friend’s mental system. You will excuse him, and me for humoring him.”

“Of course, of course,” said Braithwaite, in the same tone. “I shall not be moved by anything the old fellow can say.”

The old pensioner, meanwhile, had been as it were heating up, and gathering himself into a mood of energy which those who saw him had never before witnessed in his usually quiet person. He seemed somehow to grow taller and larger, more impressive. At length, fixing his eyes on Lord Braithwaite, he spoke again.

“Dark, murderous man,” exclaimed he. “Your course has not been unwatched; the secrets of this mansion are not unknown. For two centuries back, they have been better known to them who dwell afar off than to those resident within the mansion. The foot that made the Bloody Footstep has returned from its long wanderings, and it passes on, straight as destiny, — sure as an avenging Providence, — to the punishment and destruction of those who incur retribution.”

“Here is an odd kind of tragedy,” said Lord Braithwaite, with a scornful smile. “Come, my old friend, lay aside this vein and talk sense.”

“Not thus do you escape your penalty, hardened and crafty one!” exclaimed the pensioner. “I demand of you, before this worthy Warden, access to the secret ways of this mansion, of which thou dost unjustly retain possession. I shall disclose what for centuries has remained hidden, — the ghastly secrets that this house hides.”

“Humor him,” whispered the Warden, “and hereafter I will take care that the exuberance of our old friend shall be duly restrained. He shall not trouble you again.”