present possessor of the estate--or indeed in the strong family
characteristic that had become hereditary--to encourage him to attempt
any advances. It is very probable that the religion of Mr. Eldredge, as a
Catholic, may have excited a prejudice against him, as it certainly had
insulated the family, in a great degree, from the sympathies of the
neighborhood. Mr. Eldredge, moreover, had resided long on the Continent;
long in Italy; and had come back with habits that little accorded with
those of the gentry of the neighborhood; so that, in fact, he was almost
as much of a stranger, and perhaps quite as little of a real Englishman,
as Middleton himself. Be that as it might, Middleton, when he sought to
learn something about him, heard the strangest stories of his habits of
life, of his temper, and of his employments, from the people with whom he
conversed. The old legend, turning upon the monomania of the family, was
revived in full force in reference to this poor gentleman; and many a
time Middleton's interlocutors shook their wise heads, saying with a
knowing look and under their breath that the old gentleman was looking
for the track of the Bloody Footstep. They fabled--or said, for it might
not have been a false story--that every descendant of this house had a
certain portion of his life, during which he sought the track of that
footstep which was left on the threshold of the mansion; that he sought
it far and wide, over every foot of the estate; not only on the estate,
but throughout the neighborhood; not only in the neighborhood but all
over England; not only throughout England but all about the world. It was
the belief of the neighborhood--at least of some old men and women in
it--that the long period of Mr. Eldredge's absence from England had been
spent in the search for some trace of those departing footsteps that had
never returned. It is very possible--probable, indeed--that there may
have been some ground for this remarkable legend; not that it is to be
credited that the family of Eldredge, being reckoned among sane men,
would seriously have sought, years and generations after the fact, for
the first track of those bloody footsteps which the first rain of drippy
England must have washed away; to say nothing of the leaves that had
fallen and the growth and decay of so many seasons, that covered all
traces of them since. But nothing is more probable than that the
continual recurrence to the family genealogy, which had been necessitated
by the matter of the dormant peerage, had caused the Eldredges, from
father to son, to keep alive an interest in that ancestor who had
disappeared, and who had been supposed to carry some of the most
important family papers with him. But yet it gave Middleton a strange
thrill of pleasure, that had something fearful in it, to think that all
through these ages he had been waited for, sought for, anxiously
expected, as it were; it seemed as if the very ghosts of his kindred, a
long shadowy line, held forth their dim arms to welcome him; a line
stretching back to the ghosts of those who had flourished in the old, old
times; the doubletted and beruffled knightly shades of Queen Elizabeth's
time; a long line, stretching from the mediaeval ages, and their
duskiness, downward, downward, with only one vacant space, that of him
who had left the Bloody Footstep. There was an inexpressible pleasure
(airy and evanescent, gone in a moment if he dwelt upon it too
thoughtfully, but very sweet) to Middleton's imagination, in this idea.
When he reflected, however, that his revelations, if they had any effect
at all, might serve only to quench the hopes of these long expectants, it
of course made him hesitate to declare himself.
One afternoon, when he was in the midst of musings such as this, he saw
at a distance through the park, in the direction of the manor-house, a
person who seemed to be walking slowly and seeking for something upon the
ground. He was a long way off when Middleton first perceived him; and
there were two clumps of trees and underbrush, with interspersed tracts
of sunny lawn, between them. The person, whoever he was, kept on, and
plunged into the first clump of shrubbery, still keeping his eyes on the
ground, as if intensely searching for something. When he emerged from the
concealment of the first clump of shrubbery, Middleton saw that he was a
tall, thin person, in a dark dress; and this was the chief observation
that the distance enabled him to make, as the figure kept slowly onward,
in a somewhat wavering line, and plunged into the second clump of
shrubbery. From that, too, he emerged; and soon appeared to be a thin
elderly figure, of a dark man with gray hair, bent, as it seemed to
Middleton, with infirmity, for his figure still stooped even in the
intervals when he did not appear to be tracking the ground. But Middleton
could not but be surprised at the singular appearance the figure had of
setting its foot, at every step, just where a previous footstep had been
made, as if he wanted to measure his whole pathway in the track of
somebody who had recently gone over the ground in advance of him.
Middleton was sitting at the foot of an oak; and he began to feel some
awkwardness in the consideration of what he would do if Mr. Eldredge--for
he could not doubt that it was he--were to be led just to this spot, in
pursuit of his singular occupation. And even so it proved.
Middleton could not feel it manly to fly and hide himself, like a guilty
thing; and indeed the hospitality of the English country gentleman in
many cases gives the neighborhood and the stranger a certain degree of
freedom in the use of the broad expanse of ground in which they and their
forefathers have loved to sequester their residences. The figure kept on,
showing more and more distinctly the tall, meagre, not unvenerable
features of a gentleman in the decline of life, apparently in ill-health;
with a dark face, that might once have been full of energy, but now
seemed enfeebled by time, passion, and perhaps sorrow. But it was strange
to see the earnestness with which he looked on the ground, and the
accuracy with which he at last set his foot, apparently adjusting it
exactly to some footprint before him; and Middleton doubted not that,
having studied and re-studied the family records and the judicial
examinations which described exactly the track that was seen the day
after the memorable disappearance of his ancestor, Mr. Eldredge was now,
in some freak, or for some purpose best known to himself, practically
following it out. And follow it out he did, until at last he lifted up
his eyes, muttering to himself: "At this point the footsteps wholly
disappear."
Lifting his eyes, as we have said, while thus regretfully and
despairingly muttering these words, he saw Middleton against the oak,
within three paces of him.
_May 13th, Thursday_.--Mr. Eldredge (for it was he) first kept his eyes
fixed full on Middleton's face, with an expression as if he saw him not;
but gradually--slowly, at first--he seemed to become aware of his
presence; then, with a sudden flush, he took in the idea that he was
encountered by a stranger in his secret mood. A flush of anger or shame,
perhaps both, reddened over his face; his eyes gleamed; and he spoke
hastily and roughly.
"Who are you?" he said. "How come you here? I allow no intruders in my
park. Begone, fellow!"
"Really, sir, I did not mean to intrude upon you," said Middleton
blandly. "I am aware that I owe you an apology; but the beauties of your
park must plead my excuse; and the constant kindness of [the] English
gentleman, which admits a stranger to the privilege of enjoying so much
of the beauty in which he himself dwells as the stranger's taste permits
him to enjoy."
"An artist, perhaps," said Mr. Eldredge, somewhat less uncourteously. "I
am told that they love to come here and sketch those old oaks and their
vistas, and the old mansion yonder. But you are an intrusive set, you
artists, and think that a pencil and a sheet of paper may be your
passport anywhere. You are mistaken, sir. My park is not open to
strangers."
"I am sorry, then, to have intruded upon you," said Middleton, still in
good humor; for in truth he felt a sort of kindness, a sentiment,
ridiculous as it may appear, of kindred towards the old gentleman, and
besides was not unwilling in any way to prolong a conversation in which
he found a singular interest. "I am sorry, especially as I have not even
the excuse you kindly suggest for me. I am not an artist, only an
American, who have strayed hither to enjoy this gentle, cultivated, tamed
nature which I find in English parks, so contrasting with the wild,
rugged nature of my native land. I beg your pardon, and will retire."
"An American," repeated Mr. Eldredge, looking curiously at him. "Ah, you
are wild men in that country, I suppose, and cannot conceive that an
English gentleman encloses his grounds--or that his ancestors have done
so before him--for his own pleasure and convenience, and does not
calculate on having it infringed upon by everybody, like your own
forests, as you say. It is a curious country, that of yours; and in Italy
I have seen curious people from it."
"True, sir," said Middleton, smiling. "We send queer specimens abroad;
but Englishmen should consider that we spring from them, and that we
present after all only a picture of their own characteristics, a little
varied by climate and in situation."
Mr. Eldredge looked at him with a certain kind of interest, and it seemed
to Middleton that he was not unwilling to continue the conversation, if a
fair way to do so could only be offered to him. A secluded man often
grasps at any opportunity of communicating with his kind, when it is
casually offered to him, and for the nonce is surprisingly familiar,
running out towards his chance-companion with the gush of a dammed-up
torrent, suddenly unlocked. As Middleton made a motion to retire, he put
out his hand with an air of authority to restrain him.
"Stay," said he. "Now that you are here, the mischief is done, and you
cannot repair it by hastening away. You have interrupted me in my mood of
thought, and must pay the penalty by suggesting other thoughts. I am a
lonely man here, having spent most of my life abroad, and am separated
from my neighbors by various circumstances. You seem to be an intelligent
man. I should like to ask you a few questions about your country."
He looked at Middleton as he spoke, and seemed to be considering in what
rank of life he should place him; his dress being such as suited a humble
rank. He seemed not to have come to any very certain decision on this
point.
"I remember," said he, "you have no distinctions of rank in your country;
a convenient thing enough, in some respects. When there are no gentlemen,
all are gentlemen. So let it be. You speak of being Englishmen; and it
has often occurred to me that Englishmen have left this country and been
much missed and sought after, who might perhaps be sought there
successfully."
"It is certainly so, Mr. Eldredge," said Middleton, lifting his eyes to
his face as he spoke, and then turning them aside. "Many footsteps, the
track of which is lost in England, might be found reappearing on the
other side of the Atlantic; ay, though it be hundreds of years since the
track was lost here."
Middleton, though he had refrained from looking full at Mr. Eldredge as
he spoke, was conscious that he gave a great start; and he remained
silent for a moment or two, and when he spoke there was the tremor in his
voice of a nerve that had been struck and still vibrated.
"That is a singular idea of yours," he at length said; "not singular in
itself, but strangely coincident with something that happened to be
occupying my mind. Have you ever heard any such instances as you speak
of?"
"Yes," replied Middleton. "I have had pointed out to me the rightful heir
to a Scottish earldom, in the person of an American farmer, in his
shirt-sleeves. There are many Americans who believe themselves to hold
similar claims. And I have known one family, at least, who had in their
possession, and had had for two centuries, a secret that might have been
worth wealth and honors if known in England. Indeed, being kindred as we
are, it cannot but be the case."
Mr. Eldredge appeared to be much struck by these last words, and gazed
wistfully, almost wildly, at Middleton, as if debating with himself
whether to say more. He made a step or two aside; then returned abruptly,
and spoke.
"Can you tell me the name of the family in which this secret was kept?"
said he; "and the nature of the secret?"
"The nature of the secret," said Middleton, smiling, "was not likely to
be extended to any one out of the family. The name borne by the family
was Middleton. There is no member of it, so far as I am aware, at this
moment remaining in America."
"And has the secret died with them?" asked Mr. Eldredge.
"They communicated it to none," said Middleton.
"It is a pity! It was a villainous wrong," said Mr. Eldredge. "And so, it
may be, some ancient line, in the old country, is defrauded of its rights
for want of what might have been obtained from this Yankee, whose
democracy has demoralized them to the perception of what is due to the
antiquity of descent, and of the bounden duty that there is, in all
ranks, to keep up the honor of a family that has had potence enough to
preserve itself in distinction for a thousand years."
"Yes," said Middleton, quietly, "we have sympathy with what is strong and
vivacious to-day; none with what was so yesterday."
The remark seemed not to please Mr. Eldredge; he frowned, and muttered
something to himself; but recovering himself, addressed Middleton with
more courtesy than at the commencement of their interview; and, with this
graciousness, his face and manner grew very agreeable, almost
fascinating: he [was] still haughty, however.
"Well, sir," said he, "I am not sorry to have met you. I am a solitary
man, as I have said, and a little communication with a stranger is a
refreshment, which I enjoy seldom enough to be sensible of it. Pray, are
you staying hereabouts?"
Middleton signified to him that he might probably spend some little time
in the village.
"Then, during your stay," said Mr. Eldredge, "make free use of the walks
in these grounds; and though it is not probable that you will meet me in
them again, you need apprehend no second questioning of your right to be
here. My house has many points of curiosity that may be of interest to a
stranger from a new country. Perhaps you have heard of some of them."
"I have heard some wild legend about a Bloody Footstep," answered
Middleton; "indeed, I think I remember hearing something about it in my
own country; and having a fanciful sort of interest in such things, I
took advantage of the hospitable custom which opens the doors of curious
old houses to strangers, to go to see it. It seemed to me, I confess,
only a natural stain in the old stone that forms the doorstep."
"There, sir," said Mr. Eldredge, "let me say that you came to a very
foolish conclusion; and so, good-by, sir."
And without further ceremony, he cast an angry glance at Middleton, who
perceived that the old gentleman reckoned the Bloody Footstep among his
ancestral honors, and would probably have parted with his claim to the
peerage almost as soon as have given up the legend.
Present aspect of the story: Middleton on his arrival becomes acquainted
with the old Hospitaller, and is familiarized at the Hospital. He pays a
visit in his company to the manor-house, but merely glimpses at its
remarkable things, at this visit, among others at the old cabinet, which
does not, at first view, strike him very strongly. But, on musing about
his visit afterwards, he finds the recollection of the cabinet strangely
identifying itself with his previous imaginary picture of the palatial
mansion; so that at last he begins to conceive the mistake he has made.
At this first [visit], he does not have a personal interview with the
possessor of the estate; but, as the Hospitaller and himself go from room
to room, he finds that the owner is preceding them, shyly flitting like a
ghost, so as to avoid them. Then there is a chapter about the character
of the Eldredge of the day, a Catholic, a morbid, shy man, representing
all the peculiarities of an old family, and generally thought to be
insane. And then comes the interview between him and Middleton, where the
latter excites such an interest that he dwells upon the old man's mind,
and the latter probably takes pains to obtain further intercourse with
him, and perhaps invites him to dinner, and [to] spend a night in his
house. If so, this second meeting must lead to the examination of the
cabinet, and the discovery of some family documents in it. Perhaps the
cabinet may be in Middleton's sleeping-chamber, and he examines it by
himself, before going to bed; and finds out a secret which will perplex
him how to deal with it.
_May 14th, Friday_.--We have spoken several times already of a young
girl, who was seen at this period about the little antiquated village of
Smithells; a girl in manners and in aspect unlike those of the cottages
amid which she dwelt. Middleton had now so often met her, and in solitary
places, that an acquaintance had inevitably established itself between
them. He had ascertained that she had lodgings at a farm-house near by,
and that she was connected in some way with the old Hospitaller, whose
acquaintance had proved of such interest to him; but more than this he
could not learn either from her or others. But he was greatly attracted
and interested by the free spirit and fearlessness of this young woman;
nor could he conceive where, in staid and formal England, she had grown
up to be such as she was, so without manner, so without art, yet so
capable of doing and thinking for herself. She had no reserve,
apparently, yet never seemed to sin against decorum; it never appeared to
restrain her that anything she might wish to do was contrary to custom;
she had nothing of what could be called shyness in her intercourse with
him; and yet he was conscious of an unapproachableness in Alice. Often,
in the old man's presence, she mingled in the conversation that went on
between him and Middleton, and with an acuteness that betokened a sphere
of thought much beyond what could be customary with young English
maidens; and Middleton was often reminded of the theories of those in our
own country, who believe that the amelioration of society depends greatly
on the part that women shall hereafter take, according to their
individual capacity, in all the various pursuits of life. These deeper
thoughts, these higher qualities, surprised him as they showed
themselves, whenever occasion called them forth, under the light, gay,
and frivolous exterior which she had at first seemed to present.
Middleton often amused himself with surmises in what rank of life Alice
could have been bred, being so free of all conventional rule, yet so nice
and delicate in her perception of the true proprieties that she never
shocked him.
One morning, when they had met in one of Middleton's rambles about the
neighborhood, they began to talk of America; and Middleton described to
Alice the stir that was being made in behalf of women's rights; and he
said that whatever cause was generous and disinterested always, in that
country, derived much of its power from the sympathy of women, and that
the advocates of every such cause were in favor of yielding the whole
field of human effort to be shared with women.
"I have been surprised," said he, "in the little I have seen and heard of
English women, to discover what a difference there is between them and my
own countrywomen."
"I have heard," said Alice, with a smile, "that your countrywomen are a
far more delicate and fragile race than Englishwomen; pale, feeble
hot-house plants, unfit for the wear and tear of life, without energy of
character, or any slightest degree of physical strength to base it upon.
If, now, you had these large-framed Englishwomen, you might, I should
imagine, with better hopes, set about changing the system of society, so
as to allow them to struggle in the strife of politics, or any other
strife, hand to hand, or side by side with men."
"If any countryman of mine has said this of our women," exclaimed
Middleton, indignantly, "he is a slanderous villain, unworthy to have
been borne by an American mother; if an Englishman has said it--as I know
many of them have and do--let it pass as one of the many prejudices only
half believed, with which they strive to console themselves for the
inevitable sense that the American race is destined to higher purposes
than their own. But pardon me; I forgot that I was speaking to an
Englishwoman, for indeed you do not remind me of them. But, I assure you,
the world has not seen such women as make up, I had almost said the mass
of womanhood in my own country; slight in aspect, slender in frame, as
you suggest, but yet capable of bringing forth stalwart men; they
themselves being of inexhaustible courage, patience, energy; soft and
tender, deep of heart, but high of purpose. Gentle, refined, but bold in
every good cause."
"Oh, yea have said quite enough," replied Alice, who had seemed ready to
laugh outright, during this encomium. "I think I see one of these
paragons now, in a Bloomer, I think you call it, swaggering along with a
Bowie knife at her girdle, smoking a cigar, no doubt, and tippling
sherry-cobblers and mint-juleps. It must be a pleasant life."
"I should think you, at least, might form a more just idea of what women
become," said Middleton, considerably piqued, "in a country where the
rules of conventionalism are somewhat relaxed; where woman, whatever you
may think, is far more profoundly educated than in England, where a few
ill-taught accomplishments, a little geography, a catechism of science,
make up the sum, under the superintendence of a governess; the mind being
kept entirely inert as to any capacity for thought. They are cowards,
except within certain rules and forms; they spend a life of old
proprieties, and die, and if their souls do not die with them, it is
Heaven's mercy."
Alice did not appear in the least moved to anger, though considerably to
mirth, by this description of the character of English females. She
laughed as she replied, "I see there is little danger of your leaving
your heart in England." She added more seriously, "And permit me to say,
I trust, Mr. Middleton, that you remain as much American in other
respects as in your preference of your own race of women. The American
who comes hither and persuades himself that he is one with Englishmen, it
seems to me, makes a great mistake; at least, if he is correct in such an
idea he is not worthy of his own country, and the high development that
awaits it. There is much that is seductive in our life, but I think it is
not upon the higher impulses of our nature that such seductions act. I
should think ill of the American who, for any causes of ambition,--any
hope of wealth or rank,--or even for the sake of any of those old,
delightful ideas of the past, the associations of ancestry, the
loveliness of an age-long home,--the old poetry and romance that haunt
these ancient villages and estates of England,--would give up the chance
of acting upon the unmoulded future of America."
"And you, an Englishwoman, speak thus!" exclaimed Middleton. "You perhaps
speak truly; and it may be that your words go to a point where they are
especially applicable at this moment. But where have you learned these
ideas? And how is it that you know how to awake these sympathies, that
have slept perhaps too long?"
"Think only if what I have said be truth," replied Alice. "It is no
matter who or what I am that speak it."
"Do you speak," asked Middleton, from a sudden impulse, "with any secret
knowledge affecting a matter now in my mind?"
Alice shook her head, as she turned away; but Middleton could not
determine whether the gesture was meant as a negative to his question, or
merely as declining to answer it. She left him; and he found himself
strangely disturbed with thoughts of his own country, of the life that he
ought to be leading there, the struggles in which he ought to be taking
part; and, with these motives in his impressible mind, the motives that
had hitherto kept him in England seemed unworthy to influence him.