A Bloodsmoor Romance Page 8

  MALVINIA: It would be like—like a Poppa—it would love the little souls—it would take care of them.

  MR. ZINN: And would they take care of one another?

  MALVINIA: Yes—because they are all sisters and brothers.

  MR. ZINN: Very good, my dear!—very good indeed. And now tell me, where does the Soul reside?

  MALVINIA: Where—where you can’t see it.

  MR. ZINN: But where is that, Malvinia?

  MALVINIA: Oh—far away, I think. Back behind the mountains. Where the sun comes from.

  MR. ZINN: And is the Soul anywhere else?

  MALVINIA: Yes—it is everywhere, I think—it must be everywhere—like rain when it rains—like snow in the winter.

  MR. ZINN: And how do you know that with certainty, dear child?

  MALVINIA: Because—because we are all made by it—sisters and brothers of the same Father.

  MR. ZINN: Is the Great Soul inside you, Malvinia, or outside?

  MALVINIA: It is inside, I think—and outside too.

  MR. ZINN: How can you discover it inside?

  MALVINIA: By closing my eyes.

  MR. ZINN: Very good, dear! And how can you discover it outside?

  MALVINIA: By loving my sisters, and my father and mother, and Grandmother and Grandfather Kidde­master, and Great-Aunt Edwina, and Great-Uncle Vaughan, and all my cousins, and—and all of the world!—for the Soul resides in all, and I am only good, when, by loving them, I love it.)

  IT IS TO be remarked that, long before her infamous career was begun, and long, indeed, before it was even dreamt of, in the solitary recesses of her heart, Miss Malvinia Zinn was a consummate actress, albeit of an altogether innocent type: most happily herself, and consequently possessed of a radiant beauty, when she had the occasion to perform for others—as if preening, with childlike vanity, before a mirror.

  Thus “The Rose of the Kidde­master Garden” had no need, like poor Octavia, to pore over Aunt Edwina’s numerous manuals, or to peruse, with knitted brow, the new issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book, in order to be sufficiently charming, to the opposite sex: she knew by instinct how to give her numerous admirers the very same rapt attention, which never lacked, at the moment, in sincerity, that she had, in the nursery, given her dear father.

  Accomplished as she was in every social, and public, respect, I am bound to confess that Malvinia’s famed vivacity, and above all the bountifulness of her lovely smile, did not invariably extend themselves to those closest to her—to her sisters, in truth. Ofttimes unprovok’d quarrels arose, betwixt Malvinia and Constance Philippa: for the eldest Zinn daughter declared herself exasperated, and resolutely uncharmed, by Malvinia’s queenly manner, and could not resist challenging her, on certain of her remarks. Infrequent indeed were quarrels betwixt Malvinia and Octavia, but this might have been because the latter was so tirelessly generous, and so forgiving of all trespass, that Malvinia had no cause for annoyance: many were the times Octavia took great pains to dress Malvinia’s hair in a particularly demanding style, adjudged to be beyond the skills of the Zinns’ single lady’s maid; many were the times Malvinia declared herself desperate, and but partly clad, if she could not borrow for an afternoon, or an evening, or a weekend, some pretty accessory of her sister’s—she so passionately coveted a lovely East Indian shawl of fine twilled goat’s wool, a gift to Octavia from Grandmother Kidde­master, and borrowed it so frequently, that, in obedience to the promptings of her heart, Octavia freely gave it to her: this being but one of numerous instances of Octavia’s generosity, beginning when the girls were yet very young, and hardly out of the nursery.

  If Malvinia had not quarreled o’ermuch with Samantha, it was primarily because this child, for many years the youngest of the Zinn girls, struck her as insignificant: so plain, so prim, so pinched of demeanor, with her nose always in a book, or her pencil rapidly scribbling on one of Mr. Zinn’s yellow sheets of foolscap!—nay, poor Samantha could not be taken seriously, as a worthy sister, still less as a rival. (So secure was Malvinia in Mr. Zinn’s love, that she never troubled to feel jealousy over the fact that Samantha spent so many hours of the day in the workshop above the gorge, playing at being her father’s apprentice; for Malvinia had known from the cradle that she was Mr. Zinn’s favorite, and could not be dislodged from that belief.)

  “Am I pretty? Shall I be prettier still?” So Malvinia queried her mirror image, as, with the passage of time, she comprehended that it was not done, to speak thusly to others. “Shall I be known as the most beautiful of the Zinn girls?—nay, the most beautiful of all the girls of Bloodsmoor?”

  The flawless skin fairly glowed, in assent; the blue eyes shone in certitude; the quick smile was dazzling to see! Yet the impetuous Malvinia could not resist a further question: “Shall I be Father’s favorite, throughout his life, and mine?”

  IT WILL BE no surprise to the reader that the arrival of the orphan-child, Deirdre (then known pityingly as Deirdre Bonner), while distressing in varied ways to the other sisters, was most distressing to Malvinia: not simply because the Zinns were “poor,” in comparison to their relatives, and to the important Bloodsmoor families, but because, alas, it did seem, for a time at least, that John Quincy Zinn felt o’ermuch affection (however tempered by his natural absentmindedness of manner) for the orphan, the which inevitably lessened his affection, or, at least, his attention, for Malvinia.

  “I cannot think why Father dotes upon her,” the affronted Malvinia exclaimed, “nay, I cannot even think why he gazes upon her: for is she not ugly? Is she not sullen? Is she not pitiable? Is she not common?”

  Little Deirdre Bonner had suffered the untimely deaths of both parents, within a scant fortnight of each other, of the dreaded typhoid: and there had been worry, for a time, that she would succumb as well, less to illness itself as to a most pathetic abandonment of life. She had wept very little, neighbors attested; she was so bereft, even tears failed her—thus believed Mrs. Hewett, the good wife of Reverend Hewett, who had taken for her particular charity, amongst the impoverished and unfortunate in the village, this pitiable little orphan. (All the Bloodsmoor ladies, naturally including the Kidde­masters, and Mrs. Zinn, ventured forth as many times as thrice weekly, by carriage, to the homes of the poor, bringing to them such necessities of life as warm clothing, cast-off parasols, and the coarser varieties of food, without which these unhappy wretches would doubtless have expired, over the cruel winter in particular. Of the Zinn girls, only Octavia took heartfelt pleasure in these visits: the others, to their shame, sulked and fretted, and oft refused to smile, shown into an airless and dim-lit cottage of modest proportions, or forced to observe, at rather too close a range, a sickly mewling babe at his mother’s breast. “That the poor are so dull, and so tiresome, and, I am sorry to say, so boring, is surely not their fault,” Malvinia once declared, her blue eyes flashing, “yet, as it is not ours, why must we suffer for it?”)

  The woeful little orphan Deirdre was not, however, of an impoverished family: for Mr. Bonner had been employed as a manager at a textiles factory some miles downriver (a factory owned by Mr. Clement Whitton, an uncle of Godfrey Kidde­master’s, in truth), and Mrs. Bonner had, within the limits necessitated by her modest social station, participated in church activities, at Trinity Episcopal Church, in which, at infrequent times, she might have been in the company of Mrs. John Quincy Zinn, tho’ Mrs. Zinn had no clear recollection of the unhappy woman, and was certain that they had never exchanged a word. Twice-yearly, at Christmas, and in midsummer, great Kidde­master Hall was thrown open to local residents above a social rank, and it is to be supposed that the Bonners were included in this general invitation: but, again, no one had any recollection of them, and certain of the Kidde­masters—Edwina in particular—shunned these gatherings, for the very jolliness of such persons, wandering agape about the Hall, and eating and drinking all they could, was most distressing, and raised unfortunate thoughts about the wisdom of Mr. Jefferson, and the nature of the American Democ
racy generally.

  Thus, no one claimed to know the Bonners; nor did it help that Mr. and Mrs. Zinn so abruptly made their decision to adopt the orphan, and to bring her home to the Octagonal House, that she would, of a sudden, have not merely a family, but four sisters! Nor did it help that the child herself, far from exhibiting gratitude, and smiling in response to the Zinns’ overtures, sullenly thrust her fingers into her mouth, and shrank from all caresses like a frightened animal, and appeared to have gone mute, out of stubbornness as well as natural grief.

  “Why, this Deirdre is naught but a half-drowned river rat!” Malvinia exclaimed, to her sisters, out of earshot of Mr. and Mrs. Zinn. “And we are to be expected to take her to our bosoms, to love her, as if she were one of us?”

  “It is a rather grim prospect,” Constance Philippa said, drawing herself stiffly up, to her full height, “yet, I suppose, we can rise to the challenge: for it would hardly do, you know, to oppose Father and Mother.”

  Samantha, then but eleven years of age, thought it most unfair that she should be forced to share a bedchamber with Deirdre: for Deirdre looked, Samantha said, like a wild creature that might bite; Octavia, ever the sensible one, bade them all hush, for it would not be their fancy, as to whether Deirdre was welcome or not, in the household: “She is our sister now, and will henceforth be known as one of our family,” declared Octavia, in a forthright tone, “and that, I am bound to say, is that.”

  IT MAY HAVE done some good, that Mr. Zinn spoke quietly to the sisters, each in turn, to assure them that they would not be a whit less loved, as a consequence of having a new sister: but, in truth, the more loved, as Deirdre grew adjusted to her surroundings, and able to return their affections. “And you must speak of her as your sister,” Mr. Zinn cautioned, “and never by any other rude term, as adopted sister: for I am your father, and would have it so, and it would be very, very wicked of you, to disobey.”

  Thus, for a spell of some four or five months, even the reluctant Malvinia came round, and determined that she would acquit herself blamelessly, and lavish upon the dumb creature so generous a store of affection, she would be incapable of resisting!—volunteering to teach Deirdre those difficult skills of embroidery, and needlepoint, and cross-stitching, which she had either not been taught by Mrs. Bonner, or had forgotten, as a consequence of her great loss; and to instruct her, in somewhat awkward fashion, in china-painting, and the construction of wax flowers, “phantom” leaves, Valentines, and feather fans. Malvinia’s voice being so melodious, and her manner so compellingly dramatic, when she chose to make it so, it was natural that she, and not the other sisters, should read aloud to poor Deirdre, from out that wonderful assortment of children’s books in the Zinns’ parlor: Aunt Patty’s Scrapbag, and Polly Peablossom’s Wedding, and Blanche of the Brandywine, and Knickerbocker’s History of New York (in particular, the part in which St. Nicholas travels through the sky in a wagon), and Pickwick Papers, and A Treasury of Riddles, and The Song of Hiawatha, and many a volume of poesy, by Mrs. Craik, Mrs. Polefax, Mrs. Darley, and divers others.

  Alas, very little seemed to move Deirdre, or to rouse her from her melancholy quietude, no matter how thrillingly Malvinia read, and recited, and emoted, with as much spirit, as if she were addressing a worthy audience!

  Yet Malvinia prevailed, as much out of willfulness, perhaps, as out of genuine affection, and made an effort to teach her new sister those parlor games she herself excelled in: Pam-Loo, and Boston, and Puss- in-the-Corner, and Snip, Snap, Snore ’Em, and cribbage, and checkers, and Old Maid, and Goff, and Stir-the-Mush: all this, with very little visible success, for tho’ Deirdre oft surprised the girls by winning at these trifling entertainments, she gave no evidence of enjoying them, or, indeed, even of exerting herself o’ermuch, as if her melancholy was far too sacred, to be so lightly dispelled.

  And the girls sang together, accompanied by Mrs. Zinn at the old spinet piano, that they might entertain Mr. Zinn, or aid him in relaxing by the parlor fire, after his long day’s labor. Malvinia’s strong soprano led all the rest in such beloved tunes as “Is There a Heart That Never Lov’d,” “When the Swallows Homeward Fly,” and “What Is Home Without a Mother?” Upon occasion they sang Civil War songs, of the nature of “Stonewall Jackson’s Way,” and “All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” which never failed to bring glistening tears to Mr. Zinn’s ruddy cheeks. In frolicksome spirits they sang “Baa-Baa, Black Sheep,” and “Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!” (with appropriate stomping, in which gay Constance Philippa was the most demonstrative), and the lugubrious “Come Home, Father,” the sheet music of which Great-Aunt Edwina had given them, that good lady being a founding member of the Philadelphia branch of the Temperance Union, and most intolerant of alcoholic indulgence. (It was part of the lightsome comedy of the situation, that John Quincy Zinn was a resolute teetotaler, and oft declared that he would as soon drain a glass of kerosene, as of alcohol!)

  Thus, many a chill, windy, rain-lash’d evening was spent, in the snug parlor of the Octagonal House, with all the Zinns gathered together, in boisterous merriment—save for Deirdre, who held herself a little apart, and but rarely smiled, and begged to be excused from the singing: for her voice was hoarse, or her throat sore, or her head ached, or she “had not the inclination to sing.”

  “Nay, but singing is a pleasure, Deirdre!” Thus Octavia warmly expostulated. “It is not an obligation, or a chore: but a delight.”

  Whereupon Deirdre stared at her with those o’erlarge silver-gray eyes, all unblinking, and murmured, in a near-inaudible voice, that, to her, singing was not a delight: and she would be very grateful indeed, if she might be excused.

  “Ah, you are hopeless!—you will never be a Zinn!” Thus the exasperated Malvinia declared one evening, when no one else could hear: thereby wounding the unhappy child the more.

  THAT THE ACCOMPLISH’D Malvinia Zinn was secretly jealous of her youngest sister, and in some confused manner envied her, should strike us as highly implausible, if we were not conversant with the mysterious ways of the human heart, and the wanton caprices of girlhood. In truth, Malvinia understood that Deirdre was a most wretched child, and that, in any case, her protracted melancholy was not Deirdre’s fault; Malvinia had but to gaze at her own radiant reflection in a mirror, and then at Deirdre, to register the grave distance betwixt them, and all the advantages that were hers.

  As the years passed, Deirdre grew taller, and acquired a very little of the soft roundedness of the female form; and some small—indeed, begrudging—measure of social tact and poise, the which she could scarcely have failed to absorb, dwelling amidst the Zinns and the Kidde­masters. Yet her manner remained feral; her cheeks were excessively pale; her thin lips rarely smiled; and her eyes queerly glared, as if with an unnatural light. And the irregular tuft of hair at her forehead!—it suggested a widow’s peak, though altogether lacking in the subtlety and delicacy of Malvinia’s own.

  “How unjust it is, that, to the casual eye, we might appear to be sisters!—I mean sisters related by blood, and not by the whim of law!” Malvinia shuddered, making her complaint to Octavia, in the privacy of their bedchamber.

  “I fear, Malvinia, that it is you who are unjust,” Octavia said with a wan smile: yet such was the tone of her voice, that her words fell upon the air unconvincingly.

  Thus Malvinia waged her secret war, and turned upon herself, in dismay and disgust: for why should she harbor such feeling, for a sickly creature like Deirdre, who could do her no harm?—and how could she be so cruel, as to wish misfortune upon her? (Deirdre was, it seemed, afflicted with a weak chest, and oft succumbed to respiratory ailments, in the winter months in particular. At the age of eleven she was felled by bronchitis, despite Mr. Zinn’s “fresh air regimen,” which necessitated open windows in bedrooms, in all weathers, to prevent the accumulation of stagnant air, and the breeding of lassitude, lethargy, indolence, shortness of breath, anemia, chronic fa
tigue, melancholia, and even consumption: afflictions, Mr. Zinn believed, particularly dangerous to young ladies. At the age of fourteen Deirdre spent upward of a month in bed, in midwinter, so hoarsely breathing, she could not lie on her back, but was forced to sleep in a sitting position: this malady being diagnosed by the Zinns’ physician, Dr. Moffet, as a very eccentric species of pneumonia, resistant to all normal medical treatment.)

  “Nay, it is very wrong of me, and very foolish,” Malvinia reasoned, “to be jealous of so pitiable a creature! And yet—” so the young lady calmly declared, contemplating her image in a tulipwood mirror—“and yet, what a boon to us all, my dear misguided parents as well as my sisters, if, by altogether natural and blameless means, and quite by happenstance, poor little Deirdre should die!”

  Yet it would be erroneous for the reader to conclude, from these airy, and, I think, not truly heartfelt words, that Malvinia’s dislike of Deirdre was in any way constant: or that, over a passage of time, it did not intermittently alter, to something approaching exasperated affection, or, at the very least, tolerance. For the five Zinn girls lived together, after all, in a household remarkable for its hospitality, warmth, and Christian benevolence; and the frequency of their visits to their grandparents’ great house, known throughout Bloodsmoor for its magnanimity, and the especial graciousness of Grandmother Sarah, when she enjoyed good health, could not have failed to have an ameliorating effect upon them. And, as it is surely true, as the poet says, that “Good Fortune breeds Charity,” it oft happened that Malvinia’s success at a ball, and the appearance of yet another gentleman admirer on the scene, had the agreeable effect of making her more happily disposed toward all her sisters, not excluding Deirdre.

  Nay, I think it probable that Malvinia’s heart was kindly, the while her whimsical thoughts played at cruelty: and we would do best to judge this mercurial young lady by her wisest actions, rather than her careless words!—as, I believe, we should all be wished to be judged, on earth, and by Our Heavenly Father.