A Bloodsmoor Romance Page 5

  “Then Grandfather must pay for Constance Philippa’s wedding, and many another expense, and perhaps Octavia, too, will become engaged, and what of me, what will be my fate, ah, how wretched! I shall not think along these degrading lines,” Malvinia continued hotly, “not that they are forbidden, but that they are degrading. Nay, I shall not think—yet—yet—”

  Several of the sisters exclaimed at once this young lady’s name: and it might have been observed, how visibly poor Deirdre shrank back, out of apprehension, that, in Malvinia’s outburst, she might again figure. Whereupon, with admirable alacrity, and poise, Constance Philippa turned to Samantha and inquired: “Not months, then, until the new mechanism is perfected; but—perhaps—”

  “Years,” Samantha lowly intoned.

  Again there was a strained silence, the which was broken by Samantha’s postscript, in a somewhat more casual voice: “Of course, as I have said, I may well be mistaken.”

  “In any case,” Octavia murmured, “it is not anyone’s fault—it cannot be anyone’s fault—I scarce know, of what we are speaking, save that it is no one’s fault and, surely, not to be laid at the feet of anyone here, amongst us.”

  “Of whom, pray, are you speaking?” Malvinia inquired, with a show of startl’d incredulity. “Your words are most ill-considered.”

  “I mean only—I mean—it was my intention—alas, why does my tongue trip over every other word today!—and I am so very, very warm—and quite unhappy— Indeed, Malvinia,” Octavia said, in a tremulous, hushed voice, “I believe it altogether unnecessary, for you to speculate aloud, and to vex yourself, with the possibility of my engagement. Please do not concern yourself with that eventuality again, Malvinia. You are cruel, in pretending to be kind.”

  “I was not aware,” Samantha said, “that Malvinia pretended to be kind. Did I, perhaps, misunderstand a word or two, in the course of the past several minutes?”

  “How very odd a thing to say!” Malvinia exclaimed. “Are you in alliance against me? You and she, sharing a bedchamber, and a bed—” (This reference being in regard to the fact that Samantha and Deirdre enjoy’d, in the Octagonal House, a common room.) “Nay—it is most unfair.”

  The impetuous Samantha then said: “You are most unfair, Malvinia! If we are poor—and I do not say that we are—it is surely not Deirdre’s fault—nor is it Father’s—and, in any case, one would have to be uncommonly ignorant, not to know that poverty is but a relative state: for there are innumerable families, in Bloodsmoor alone, beside whom we are quite wealthy, indeed!”

  Malvinia snapped open her fan, and fanned herself energetically, and said: “You need not sermonize me, Miss! You are very much mistaken, to attempt to sermonize me!”

  “Dear sisters, please,” Octavia pleaded, “please do not quarrel, on this wonderful day. We all know that poverty, and wealth, and any secular condition, are of very little significance, set beside Our Heavenly Father’s abiding love for us; and the love of our dear Father and Mother, here on earth and—”

  “I believe I will go home,” Samantha boldly said, groping about for her mislaid gloves. “Octavia, you may make my excuses to Mother; simply tell her that I became faint, and hurried away home.”

  “That is impossible,” Octavia cried. “You will not go anywhere on foot, unaccompanied, and in your new dress—alas, what would happen to your beautiful train alone! Nay, Constance Philippa and I cannot allow it.”

  “I shall do what I please,” Samantha said. Her small pale face was aglow with feeling, and her green eyes fairly flashed; yet, once she had caught up her gloves, and squeezed them on her hands, she did not rise from her chair, but remained sitting—as if a great weight suddenly pressed upon her.

  “Fancy such a notion!” Malvinia marveled, staring the while at her sister, and continuing to fan her face. “To talk wildly of hurrying away home, through the woods, no doubt, trotting like a horse! Why, it would be amusing, if it were not repulsive: I am only grateful that all our guests, and our dear cousins, have departed.”

  “Why cannot I go home by myself,” Samantha said, in a vexed voice, “for surely it is not dangerous? And I promise to carry my skirts, and train; and I will not—alas, I cannot—run.”

  Octavia shook her head so earnestly, her plump cheeks quivered. “But it is dangerous, Samantha. Alas, indeed it is.”

  “Dangerous in what sense?” Samantha asked. “I do not understand you. Deer there may be, in Grandfather’s park; and smaller creatures like rabbits, woodchucks, raccoons, and opossum; yet I am reasonably certain that there are no bears any longer, and have not been any for many years—”

  “Hold your tongue, Samantha,” Constance Philippa commanded. “You are very young, and very silly; and know not whereof you speak.”

  “Indeed, yes,” Octavia said sternly. “There is danger in the woods, and even along the riverbank path, and you are not to walk unescorted, and the subject is closed.”

  “Why don’t we all walk together, then,” the willful child persisted, “arm in arm, as we did when we were little!”

  “Impossible,” Constance Philippa said, “and there’s an end of it.”

  “Impossible,” Octavia said, lowering her voice, “for we should still be in danger.”

  “Impossible,” Malvinia could not resist, “for, now, there are too many of us Zinn sisters, to comfortably navigate any path.”

  Again there was a startl’d silence, and an intake of breath; and this time Deirdre roused herself to speak, with a toss of her head, and a perceptible trembling of her lower lip. “I did not—” the overwrought girl said, “I did not—I assure you, I did not ask to be born.”

  This outburst struck the sisters as so piteous, and so lacking in any vestige of dignity, that, all ablush, they scarce knew how to reply: nor even where it might be most tactful to turn their eyes: toward one another; or at the fancywork in their laps; or up toward Kidde­master Hall, with the hope that Mrs. Zinn, or one of the servants, might now be summoning them.

  I did not ask to be born—the desperate words repeated in a hoarse whisper, or in an echo, issuing out of the very air itself?

  Thus another strained silence o’erswept the sisters, whilst, her small bosom heaving, Deirdre boldly stared at them, each in turn, as if daring them to reply; or even to meet her gaze fully. But Constance Philippa became, of a sudden, deeply absorbed in her pink yarn, which had gotten tangled—and Octavia closed her tear-brimming eyes, and clasped her small plump hands together, as if silently communing with her God—and Malvinia, flush-cheeked, her blue eyes bright with feeling, turned all her attention to her silken parasol, the carved ivory handle of which, just the day before, kindly Mr. Zinn had attempted to clean with a powerful chemical solution of his own formula—and Samantha gave the linen towel in her lap a nervous shake, and, with unusual zeal, again took up the embroidery needle, and spoke not a word.

  Indeed, for some minutes, naught was heard upon the great sloping lawn save the rapturous songs of birds; and the quaint cry of the cicada; and a faint breeze rustling the reeds and ornamental sere grasses, that grew close about the gazebo, and the old stone wishing well, and the picturesque river path: tho’, it may be, an ear of especial keenness, might have detected, from afar, an indistinct, tremulous murmur very much like thunder!

  Thus the minutes passed, and, after a great deal of pained silence, during which, as you can imagine, none of the sisters wished to confront Deirdre’s ill-mannered gaze, Malvinia delicately cleared her throat, and dabbed at her nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and inquired of Samantha, with as much propriety as if they were two Philadelphia dowagers at a tea: “Dear Samantha, please excuse me, for I freely confess my ignorance!—but I neglected earlier to inquire, as to the purpose of Father’s perpetual-motion machine?”

  Samantha looked up from her elaborate cross-stitching, and a smile illuminated that oft-peevish countenance, as, grandly, she spoke these words: “Its purpose, Malvinia, is nothing more, and nothing less, than to run forever.”

  IT WAS AT this precise moment, the sisters afterward testified, that Deirdre, of a sudden, having given no warning, rose to her feet and allowed the unfinished antimacassar to fall to the floor.

  The sisters stared; Octavia may have spoken Deirdre’s name; yet, in the confusion of the moment, nothing was clear, save that the impetuous young lady made her way out of the gazebo, and down the little steps to the lawn, with not a backward glance, or so much as a murmured apology, for the unseemliness of her exit, or for having brushed her skirts and heavy train so rudely against Constance Philippa that her hat was dislodged!

  In amaz’d alarm the four sisters stared after the fifth, as, with bold resolute step, she made her way down the grassy slope to the riverbank, choosing not to walk on the gravel path, her head held high, and the many ribbons of her yellow dress aflutter. She had left behind her gloves, and her fan, and her sunshade; and it would have been clear at once, to any eye, that her hat was no longer set correctly on her head, but had shifted some degrees to the side.

  “Why,” Malvinia breathed, pressing a hand against her straining bosom, “why, the vulgar creature is near-trotting!”

  FOUR

  I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;

  I woke, and found that life was Duty.

  Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?

  Toil on, sad heart, courageously,

  And thou shalt find thy dream to be

  A noonday light and truth to thee.

  Thus, the noble words of Mrs. Ellen Sturgis Hooper, penned not long before her tragic death, at the age of thirty-six.

  Beauty there is, in this Bloodsmoor chronicle; but Duty as well—Duty, I am bound to say, at the fore.

  Therefore, whilst the sisters stare at Deirdre’s retreating back, I shall force myself to illumine them, as clearly, and as briefly, as possible. (Alas, force is not inappropriate here, for, knowing well the prospects that lie ahead, for each of the sisters, I suffer to recall their fresh young faces, upon that September afternoon of 1879!—and wish only that it were given me, as chronicler of this history, some measure of omnipotence, that I might guide their destinies in happier directions.)

  Nevertheless, I shall begin, turning my attentions first to Constance Philippa.

  Amidst the charming Zinn girls, and their numerous female cousins, it was, perhaps, the eldest Miss Zinn who was most striking: as a consequence of her unusual height, which she carried with reluctant grace; and her mercurial manner, which wavered between outright truculence, and a sudden childlike warmth; and the Grecian cast of her features—stubborn, noble, haughty, chaste—which would have done honor to a bust of antiquity, executed in white Italian marble.

  At the advanced age of twenty-two, Constance Philippa was possessed of a surprisingly narrow, and angular, physical self, with nether limbs both long and sinewy, having very little agreeable plumpness to them, nor felicity of proportion. Her profile was hard, and regal, and had about it at times a somewhat predatory air, as a consequence of her long patrician nose; her forehead was high, showing the strength of bone, that gave to Mr. Zinn, as well, an appearance of dignity, and calm authority.

  Her hair was very dark, lacking in natural wave, and lustre; but of so pleasing a thickness, it required but a single switch, looped about the crown of the head. Her eyes too were dark—dark, and bright, and intelligent, and restive, and given to that frequent expression of irony, which so distressed her family, and did little credit to Constance Philippa herself. When she made the effort, her voice possessed the melodiousness of any young lady’s voice; at other times, unfortunately, it was low, and graceless, and dry, and droll, and stirred some apprehension in her sisters, particularly in Octavia, as to whether, in fact, it was always Constance Philippa who spoke!—and not, upon occasion, a stranger.

  Many years ago, when Mr. Zinn was away at war, and sending heartfelt letters home to his family from Antietam, and Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, and Richmond, it was Constance Philippa (then but a very small miss, indeed) who most wanted to be at his side: and to be, in fact, a soldier, bearing arms against the “nasty Rebs!” During these sad years, which seemed all the more protracted, as so much sorrow, and apprehension, and unspeakable pain were involved, Mrs. Zinn made every effort to keep her little girls as merry as possible; and to prevent them from dwelling o’er much upon the fact that their belovèd father was absent and risking his precious life, that the Union should not be dissolved. Of course the little girls and their mother prayed together, on their knees, at least thrice daily; but, in the evenings, they greatly enjoyed themselves, gathered around the piano, singing Mother Goose songs, whilst Mrs. Zinn played, with as much spirit as she could summon forth. How warm, how merry, how delightful, these evenings in the parlor, so very long ago! Yet, even upon these frolicksome occasions, Constance Philippa exhibited a curious want of propriety, in her choice of song: her oft-requested favorite being not “Sweet Lavender,” or “The Fairy Ship,” or the e’erpopular “Hey Diddle Diddle,” or the lively “Yankee Doodle” and “Looby-Loo,” but, I am sorry to say, the cruel “A Fox Went Out”—soundly disliked by the other little girls, who declared that it was nasty, and, as sung by Constance Philippa, too loud for their ears.

  Yet Constance Philippa would beg Mrs. Zinn to play it, and she would get her way, and, standing straight and tall as a little miss of seven or eight might manage, she fairly shouted the words, her dark eyes aglow—

  A Fox went out on a starlight night

  And he pray’d to the moon to give him some light

  For he’d many miles to go that night

  Before he could reach his den O!

  He came at last to a farmer’s yard

  Where the ducks and geese declared it hard,

  That their sleep should be broken and their rest be marr’d

  By a visit from Mr. Fox O!

  Mr. Fox takes the poor gray goose by the sleeve, and, despite the valiant efforts of Old Mother Slipper Sloppers and her husband John, the goose is hauled away to Fox’s den, to seven little foxes, eight, nine, ten, who devour her without fuss or ceremony, whilst Constance Philippa’s sisters clapped their hands over their ears; and Octavia in particular thought the song very, very wicked, all the more so in that the quaint illustration showed Mr. Fox seizing Madame Goose who rather resembled Grandmother Kidde­master in her morning cap! “A very wicked song,” Octavia cried, “for why did not Baby Jesus intervene?”

  A decade later, and more, the eldest Miss Zinn, now an affianced young lady, oft found herself humming this old and near-forgotten nursery song beneath her breath, to her own surprise, and with some embarrassment. He took the gray goose by the sleeve,/ Quoth he “Madame Goose, now, by your leave,/ I’ll take you away without reprieve,/ And carry you off to my den O!”—these uncouth words, adjoined to a most unseemly boisterous rhythm, running through her mind in the very presence of her fiancé, or in the midst of a formal dinner party, or a tea, or a reception at one or another stately Bloodsmoor home, with such percussive force that she oft lost track of the conversation about her, and sat in unnatural stillness. He sat him down with his hungry wife;/ They did very well without fork or knife;/ They ne’er ate a better goose in all their life,/ And the little ones picked the bones O!

  It cannot be said that Constance Philippa was very well acquainted with her fiancé, the Baron Adolf von Mainz, to whom she had first been introduced but the previous December, at the resplendent Christmas ball given annually by the Kidde­masters of Wilmington: nor, I suppose, can it be said that the reticent young lady felt, as yet, any o’erwhelming sentiment pertaining to her fiancé, and to the impending matrimonial state. That, however, she would in time come to love the Baron, and have every wish to bear his sons, she did not doubt, partly as a consequence of Mrs. Zinn’s enthusiasm and encouragement, and partly as a consequence of her frequent readings in the field of romance—such novels as The Bride of Llewellyn, Blanche of the Brandywine, Phantom Wedding, and many another: the which promised many blessings, though difficult of interpretation, springing from the marital state.

  The Baron was of indeterminate age, and gave off a commingl’d scent of tobacco, red meat, and something very dark and very moist; he was not uncommonly tall of stature (being, in fact, some negligible inches shorter than Constance Philippa); nor above the ordinary, in terms of conventional handsomeness, and personal charm. The pronounced nature of his Germanic accent, coupled with an intrinsic shyness, on the part of Constance Philippa, made casual intercourse betwixt them somewhat difficult, yet, as their meetings were always in company, or closely attended by one or more chaperons, this was by no means a serious impediment to their romance: and, indeed, oft struck Constance Philippa as felicitous, in that she doubted she had anything to say to him, or he to her, at this early stage in their acquaintance.

  The quality in him which most impressed Mrs. Zinn and the Kidde­masters, was less his social manner than his ancestral name, the which, it was said, was nine hundred years old, and very well known in Central Europe. The quality in him which, alas, most impressed Constance Philippa had naught to do with his name, or his probable fortune, or his personal charm, but with his sportsmanship, of which she actually knew very little, though she had upon several occasions seen him mounted on his stallion Lucifer, and once with his falcon Adonis on his wrist: both the stallion and the falcon being such sleek, magnificent, beauteous creatures, Constance Philippa’s breath was near snatched away, in utter awe!—though, being by nature and training a perfectly comported young lady, she took care to give no sign.

  The approaching wedding necessitated some intimate discussions, betwixt Mrs. Zinn and Constance Philippa, as to the phenomenon of conjugal love, and woman’s ministration, and wifely duty; and it was with considerable warmth that the elder woman insisted that Constance Philippa lay aside all her hesitations, for, in time, she would surely come to “love” the Baron, with a love befitting their circumstances. Upon one occasion, however, Constance Philippa, her countenance ablush, inquired of Mrs. Zinn as to her early acquaintance with Mr. Zinn: “Was it the case, Mother, that your feeling for Father grew with the passage of time?—or was it, from the first, a considerable one?” Mrs. Zinn stared at her daughter with amaz’d displeasure, that the girl should be so bold, and Constance Philippa felt compelled to continue, albeit with pronounced nervousness. “I mean, Mother, one does get the impression, from things one has heard, amongst your family, and elsewhere, that the courtship betwixt you and Father was exceedingly romantic—or, at any rate, not characterized by excessive formality—which is to say—I mean—there have been allusions in my hearing—as to—as to—”