Mysteries of Winterthurn Read online

  At Canandaigua, Georgina had been the editor of Canandaigua Bluets, the young ladies’ annual anthology of belles lettres; she had been the leader of expeditions “into the field,” to observe birds, trees, wildflowers, and the like; she had walked away, as it were, with many of the honors,—in such divers subjects as Latin, and French, and Elocution, and the Classics, and English Literature; she had blossomed, to the amazement of all the Kilgarvans, from a taciturn, withdrawn, sickly miss, given to inordinate brooding, to a forthright and handsome young lady,—which must have pleased her father, as he had feared, with great justification, an unwholesome sort of influence from Georgina’s mother, who had died when the girl was but ten.

  She had then gone away to New York City, to the continued amazement of the family, there to matriculate at Barnard College: and insisting upon taking her residence, not with anyone she knew (for several distant cousins, of an older generation, lived there), but in a boarding house for young single ladies in Morningside Heights. Precisely how long Georgina stayed there, Abigail could not recall: but remembered dimly that she had returned home to nurse her ailing father, once or twice, and then had been pressed into returning home permanently, without taking her degree. Erasmus had suffered an ulcerous condition, it was said; or heart pains; or gout; or,—but Abigail could not recall. (It was a massive stroke that had finally killed him, striking him down dead: yet all remarked how unexpected such a blow was, as, for a gentleman of his years and industry, he had enjoyed uncommonly good health—!) Settling back into her home at Glen Mawr, Georgina had acquired an excellent position as an instructress at the Parthian Academy for Girls, some nine or ten miles away, in Winterthurn City; and had adjusted herself with little complaint, it was said, to having her “wings clipped,”—though not ceasing, evidently, to write her curious little verses.

  All unexpectedly, she had been courted, in her thirty-second year, by a gentleman of poetical and musical inclinations, by the name of Guillemot,—whether Maurice, or Malcolm, Abigail could not recall; but, as this somewhat mysterious personage was exposed as a craven fortune hunter (or so family legend would have it), the courtship had been most unceremoniously terminated, with no official engagement; and so much distress on poor Georgina’s part, it was said she never fully recovered: quitting her position at the Academy soon after, and “taking the veil,”—which is to say, turning by degrees into a spinster of eccentric habits and dress. Ah, unhappy Georgina!—Abigail recalled with pain a visit she and Mr. Whimbrel had made to Glen Mawr, some eight or ten years ago, when, shown into this very drawing room by the butler, they had surprised Georgina at her desk, in the act of poetical creation,—and so discountenanced her, she clasped her writing materials to her bosom and ran out of the room like a frightened rabbit; and refused to come downstairs again, no matter how sternly Judge Kilgarvan commanded her. “My daughter is shamed, it seems, to be discovered at her scribbling,” Erasmus had said, with every attempt to make light of a most unsettling incident, “yet she persists in the folly: and will not even shrink from publishing the results! Perhaps, dear little Abigail, you might whisper some sense into her ear—?”

  But Abigail had no more dared approach her elder cousin at that time than she did now, on any terms intimate, or at all direct.

  Thus it was, Georgina had passed through her girlhood, and her young womanhood, with, it seemed, a dismaying swiftness: known now through the city as the “Blue Nun”—a figure of pity, curiosity, and not a little trepidation. When they had come to the Manor to inform her of Erasmus Kilgarvan’s untimely death, it was reported that she leapt from her chair like a doe pierced through the heart, by the hunter’s bullet; that for long minutes she stared frozen into space, her blanched lips shaped to an eerie smile; and that, finally, as the enormity of the shock made its impress upon her, her face drained of all blood, and, gasping and choking, her fingers tearing at her bodice, she sank heavily to the floor. “O dear Father! O God! Where is Thy pity—!” she exclaimed, before descending into blessèd unconsciousness.

  THUS, ABIGAIL’S MELANCHOLY REVERIE, the while Georgina spoke of those acquaintances, public officials, associates of the Judge’s, and certain relatives who had,—or was it that they had not?—expressed the proper degree of sympathy upon the tragic occasion. Thérèse and Perdita sat stiffly motionless, as if daring neither to concur nor to object,—though Abigail gathered, from a slight tremor of Thérèse’s lip, and a more emphatic sullenness on the part of Perdita, that the sisters had heard these complaints many times in the past; and found them tiresome. With especial ire Georgina took up the subject of the “other Kilgarvans” of Winterthurn City: this being a family of very limited means, dwelling near Wycombe Place, and headed by Erasmus’s young half-brother, Lucas, who had been struck from their father’s will some years before,—for what particular reason, Abigail did not know. All atumble came Georgina’s words now, as if she had been awakened from an oversolemn trance, and might at last vent her spleen. “Just barely, dear Abigail, could they restrain themselves, at Father’s gravesite,” she said severely, “the pack of them: Mr. and Mrs. and great hulking boys, with little pretense of displaying even a hypocrite’s sorrow; and many a hint of the savage triumph they felt at viewing poor Father’s casket. Mr. Lucas Kilgarvan, the half-breed,—nay, do not wince, dear Cousin, for I shall call him that, as Father did: the profligate,—the ruffian,—the ingrate,—the toymaker,—whom I shall never call Uncle: nor any of those brutes, cousins of mine. No, Cousin Abigail,” Georgina said, though Abigail had made no motion to interrupt, “we can never forgive Lucas for the despicable publicity he sought, in contesting Grandfather’s will: nay, and pursuing the case to the highest court in the state. How mortified poor Father was!—and Simon Esdras as well, for all his reserve. Never,—never—can we forgive: we dare not.”

  Abigail said, with tentative boldness: “Cousin Georgina, I fear you exaggerate the situation, for I was present at the funeral, and at your father’s gravesite, and it did not strike me that Lucas and his family behaved—”

  “Nay, you are not very perceptive,” Georgina said, “or, it may be, you are too good: for Goodness, as Father has said, stumbles and gropes in the dark, possessing but a single eye; and depending upon the rest of us for,—for guidance.”

  So rudely silenced, Abigail bethought herself how best to reply, and sipped nervously at her tea, which she could not taste: the while her infant son’s crying sounded faintly from upstairs and agèd Jupiter stirred, and fretted, and sighed in his slumber, with a most human species of resignation. As if following the course of her thoughts, Georgina continued the assault, saying that it was scarcely a secret that the “pack” of Wycombe Street Kilgarvans rejoiced in Erasmus Kilgarvan’s death; that it was highly likely they had engaged an attorney, to seek again a reversal of the will; that it was altogether obvious at the funeral that the sons,—the youngest in particular—were restless, and insolent, and clearly bored: being, after all, mere animals,—loutish boys.

  Abigail gently protested that she could see no basis for alluding to Lucas Kilgarvan and his family as a pack: for was not Lucas in truth a Kilgarvan, despite the unfortunate falling-out between himself and his elder brothers; and was not his wife a De Forrest,—the De Forrests being old Winterthurn stock indeed; and were not the sons more properly designated young gentlemen than either louts, or boys? For the eldest, Bradford, must be at least twenty-five years of age; and the youngest, Xavier,—for was not Xavier the one with the curly black hair?—must surely be sixteen years old, and quite grown up. Moreover—

  At this, however, Georgina appeared inordinately distressed; and drew a grayish lace handkerchief out of her sleeve, with which she dabbed at her upper lip and brow; and murmured in an agitated voice that it quite baffled her why Abigail should wish to take their side, since she evidently preferred Erasmus Kilgarvan’s family, to visit. Nor was it comprehensible to Georgina why Abigail should make it a point to designate Lucas’s sons by name: there being a particular
anathema in the household regarding Xavier,—the which word Georgina pronounced as if it were a foreign term, and vile. Abigail could not resist displaying surprise at this revelation: and Georgina continued hurriedly to explain that the boy in question, “Xavier,” had behaved most atrociously in the cemetery, paying but a perfunctory attention to the minister’s words, and casting his eyes,—indeed, his bold and smoldering gaze—where he would: upward to the clouds, downward to the earth, to one side, to another, upon Georgina herself, and, most invidiously, upon Perdita. “Why, the insolent creature stared at me as if desirous of penetrating my innermost thoughts,” Georgina said, breathing now somewhat shallowly, “and as to his motives for contemplating my sister, I dare not speculate. Yet I should not have minded the insult to us, and to Father’s memory, if my shameless little wench of a sister had not, all coyly, and with but a clumsy attempt at secrecy, gazed upon him in return.”

  An involuntary twitch in Perdita stimulated Georgina to press onward, and to declare, with an ironic smile for Abigail’s benefit, that Perdita naturally denied the charges: “For she is most adroit in feigning both innocence and tears. Yet it would require a far more clever child than she to fool ‘Miss Georgina’: for I saw what I saw, and what I cannot see, I can surmise.”

  This perplexing outburst was met by silence: for poor Perdita sat stiffly immobile in her chair, with no more spirit than a wooden doll,—albeit her lower lip trembled, and the tight clasping of her hands indicated significant distress. Abigail glanced from one sister to the other, feeling most awkward indeed, and wondering if the subject had grown too urgent to be deflected by a lightsome remark, or a query on some neutral matter. How very pale Georgina had grown, and how queerly her dark eyes glittered! “Might it be that some innocent question regarding the late Judge’s personal papers, and whether Georgina had plans to edit them, would ‘save the day’—?” Abigail inwardly murmured. Yet she felt very much the schoolgirl, beneath Georgina Kilgarvan’s unflagging gaze, and dared not speak.

  Then, all boldly, though in a palpitant voice, Thérèse sought to defend her sister: saying that Georgina was surely mistaken, as she had noticed nothing amiss in Perdita’s behavior, whether during the funeral service, or in the cemetery. “Albeit we were all distracted by the occasion, Perdita no less than you and me,” Thérèse said hurriedly, as if she feared being interrupted, “—yet I would swear to it, that she did not misbehave, in such a way. We have covered this ground in the past, Georgina, and I must reiterate, though risking your anger, that both Perdita and I were totally taken by surprise when, upon our return home, on that most harrowing of days, you so violently excoriated our cousin Xavier—”

  “Ah, you delight in his name!” Georgina said. “Doubtless you luxuriate in the mere sound of it,—the purulent syllables—the melody!”

  “Why, Georgina, Xavier is our cousin, and he is a Kilgarvan,” Thérèse falteringly said. “How should I not know his name?”

  Georgina commanded her to be still, and to hold her tongue for the remainder of the hour: else Cousin Abigail should carry back to Contracoeur the remarkable news that the Kilgarvan sisters, though in mourning for their father, enjoyed nothing more than discussing young boys over tea. Perdita, it seems, was a “past mistress” of deception, though plying the world with an angelic face calculated to wring the hearts of fools. Of divers morbid, unclean, secret, and thoroughly perverse practices, indulged in (she had no doubt) by the “pious” Thérèse no less than Perdita, Georgina would not speak; nor did she allow herself even to think; and she recommended a like attitude for Abigail, in regard to her young children.

  For some painful seconds it appeared that Perdita might succumb to angry tears, which, Abigail feared, would the more antagonize Georgina; but the child held herself in commendable control; until, of a sudden, another spasmodic twitch overcame her body, and she raised her eyes,—ah, how darkly brilliant, how wondrously insolent, those eyes!—and said in a voice eerily matched to Georgina’s, in tone and rhythm: “You lie. It is not true. I have no friend in him. This ‘Xavier.’ I have no friend. I know no one,—and no one knows me. I love no one,—and no one loves—”

  “Quite enough,” Georgina said. “You will go upstairs at once: your tea is concluded.”

  Abigail sought to intercede, but none of the principals paid her heed: and it struck her as significant that Georgina should speak these words with an air of gratified triumph; and that Perdita, though visibly trembling with rage, should rise with such dutiful alacrity, and make an old-fashioned half-curtsy in Abigail’s direction, and straightaway leave the room. “Such impudence,” Georgina said softly, “fairly begs for the whip: but must content itself by going without dinner.”

  BRIEFLY, when the tea things were about to be cleared away, and Abigail was quite fatigued, Simon Esdras made his belated appearance,—with such mumbled apologies, it was impossible to know what he said.

  Though the white-haired gentleman was unfailingly amiable, with a low bow and a gracious smile for Abigail, that lady suffered the distinct impression that her uncle did not recognize her: and it seemed most impolitic for her to introduce herself. All clearly, Simon Esdras’s attention was elsewhere, doubtless back in his study: and the tea he vaguely sipped, and the several sandwiches he ate, failed to make any tangible impression on him. Inquiring after the ladies’ health,—making idle and witty commentary upon the weather,—stirring three or four sugar cubes in his tea, with inexpert turns of his spoon: thus Simon Esdras, the “private thinker,” navigated the shoals of the drawing room, with little expenditure of his spirit. “Ah, yes?—hmmm!—yes,—so it has invariably struck me, indeed!” he murmured, with a kindly crinkling of his eyes and a thin, though benign, smile.

  Simon Esdras, now in his mid-or late sixties, had been a youthful prodigy who had published, at the age of nineteen, a monograph addressing itself to the epistemological foundations of mankind’s perception of existence,—its precise title being A Treatise on the Probable “Existence” of the World. (Neither Abigail nor any other member of her family, alas, had had much success in penetrating the elaborate coils and clots of Simon Esdras’s prose: though harboring no doubt that their brilliant relative was correct in his reasoning.) So far as Abigail knew, subsequent works from Simon Esdras’s pen had failed to make a like impression upon the philosophical world, doubtless as a result of their unusual difficulty, and challenge to “the complacency of American and European thought”: but Simon Esdras was not in the slightest deterred, and was said to be in pursuit of his vision with yet more vigor than before. “Had I been of a temper to ‘suffer fools gladly’ in the academic world,” Simon Esdras once observed, in a rare moment of self-commentary, “I should by now be unquestioned in my position, at the very pinnacle of that tiny, and most devilishly slippery, pyramid of professorial rank: but lacking such latitudinarianism, in social no less than philosophical coinage, I must content myself with the triumphs of solitude,—and of Posterity.”

  In his person, the philosopher struck an altogether amiable, and even unassuming, figure, being rather more “roly-poly” than not: of conspicuously less than medium height: with a small, high, adamantly round belly: a moon-shaped face in which hazel eyes were widely and innocently set, and the Kilgarvan nose decidedly snubbed, to exude a boyish air. Thus it seemed to Abigail a wondrous thing, and entirely to her uncle’s credit, that, being a gentleman, and well aware of the disparity between his intelligence and that of his companions, he behaved with an utter lack of pretension; and turned upon the world an expression of guileless and acute interest, in conjunction with an air of the unfocused, and the unjudging. So it seemed that, while his outer eye moved about normally, his inner eye fixed itself upon other matters entirely, of a private nature. He beamed upon Abigail; he engaged Abigail in lightsome parlor chatter; he took no notice of Perdita’s absence, nor, indeed, of the tense “atmosphere” into which he had so artlessly stepped; the while the fine mechanism of his brain pursued its arcane interests.
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  When Thérèse proffered him the plate of sandwiches, he smilingly helped himself, observing generally that it mattered not a whit to him what he ate, or even that he ate, so long as he should be freed of vexations metaphysical questions as to the actual substance of what he ate; or, indeed, why he ate.

  Abigail then inquired after Simon Esdras’s health: for which polite query he thanked her: but said that, as he was no hypochondriac, he rarely troubled to analyze his interior state, or even to take notice as to whether his heart beat, or no: this too being a topic largely given over to females. “Inner or outer weather,” the white-haired philosopher declared smilingly, “it is all the same, to me!”

  Again, the ladies laughed, though not with an excess of exuberance; and, as she saw Simon Esdras was about to take his leave, Abigail proffered her condolences once again to him, hoping that he would soon recover from the shock of the Judge’s untimely death. These words gave Simon Esdras pause, it seemed, for he frowned fleetingly; and set down his cup at so crooked an angle, tea slopped into his saucer. Yet it was in a charmingly placid voice that he said: “Madame, it is doubtful that any event, in time, can be proven untimely: for does not the very statement fly in the face of Logic? If one dies, moreover, it follows that one has died neither before nor after ‘his’ time, but precisely at ‘his’ time: the simple proof of the matter being, that he has died. Why, dear lady, do you think it logical, or even possible, that we might die before, or after, ‘our’ proper times—?”