A Bloodsmoor Romance (104 page)

With the years, however, Philippe Fox grew e'er-more lean, and hard, and wiry, and stealthy, and resilient. He could sleep in the open, in the raw winds of March; he could sleep on horseback, or standing up; or in jail, wrapped in a filth-encrusted blanket. His gun hand grew uncannily steady, whether he was shooting at slow-circling hawks, or fence posts, or another man, who happened to be shooting at
him:
and his chill dark eyes grew steady as well, and appeared, at times, to have no human need for blinking. His fine dark hair began to gray at the temples, but was otherwise untouched by age. His brow crinkled; and faint white lines appeared about his eyes, and bracketing his mouth; yet, withal, his skin possessed an unusual smoothness, and took very well to the sun. By the time of the tyrannical Mr. Plummer, at the Bosque Grande ranch, Mr. Fox was assuredly a male, in every particular: the growth, and expansion, and forcible protuberance, of the inner female organ, being now nearly complete, and having attained a length of some five or six inches, in repose. (This tubelike structure, of solid flesh, boneless, thickly veined, and evidently lacking in sinew, could attain a remarkable length when flushed with blood, and heat—some nine or ten inches.) That the transformation of the
interior
to the
outer
was so gradual, surely accounts for the fact that Philippe Fox himself scarcely took note of the curious phenomenon, and felt very little intrinsic disgust, as, certainly, he would have done, as Constance Philippa Zinn. Concomitant with the extraordinary protuberance, there was a reversal of growth, in the torso: what had once been the bosom of Constance Philippa, now had flattened, or had, at the very most, a sinewy muscular curve, by no means of a feminine aspect. It must have been the case that, in solitude, Philippe Fox did contemplate the nether stretches of his body, perhaps with amaz'd chagrin, or a morbid brooding, or simple wonderment: but, as Constance Philippa Zinn, he had known so very little about his own body, and had, in truth, never inspected it, or dared touch it, that it is even possible he did not know, with any exactitude, whether a true change had occurred or not; or whether this forcible expansion, of the secret female organ, outward, was perhaps an altogether normal feature, analogous to certain female problems, or conditions, he had heard whisper'd, in Bloodsmoor. Even then, I am pleased to say, a natural gentility reigned, and Mr. Fox shrank from
touching himself,
save in the most pragmatic of ways; and if it occurred to him that this hideous, yet formidable, genital apparatus might be put to some use, in regard to the opposite sex (which, by this time, would pertain to the
female sex
), he happily did not act upon that notion; and was not to indulge his thoughts in such wise, until after his return to Bloodsmoor, when his heart was flooded with hope for the rescue of Delphine Martineau, and his mind with feverish schemes.

And yet—how accidental, his happening upon the notice of Great-Aunt Edwina's death, in a newspaper discarded at his elbow! “The Fox” at that time having beat a very hasty, and graceless, retreat, from Arizona: not many minutes ahead of certain vengeful ruffians, who had already “settled scores,” in their words, with the Deputy Marshal Kingston, and Governor Willis. Thus he found himself in the Baldwin Hotel, with but $40 in his pocket, and some gold dust, and a single gun, and the somewhat rumpled clothes on his back; and, but look!—he picked up a newspaper, and leafed idly through it, and came upon the old woman's obituary, and a statement that
bade him return
—with the promise of an inheritance.

Near-penniless tho' he was, and without a friend in the entire West, he stood erect, and flung back his proud head, and exclaimed:
“Never!”

EIGHTY-ONE

W
ould that Philippe Fox had held true to his word, and refused to return to Bloodsmoor: but such, unfortunately, was not to be the case.

Tho' “The Fox” had once been counted “as good as dead,” by former associates and acquaintances in Arizona, it was with an extraordinary burst of life, and malodorous energy, that he began to appear in the vicinity of sombre old Mt. Espérance; upon several bold occasions, Mr. Ormond being absent, he gained entrance to the house itself, by way of the suggestible kitchen staff. It was his strategy to make contact with the deranged woman by means of
secret missives,
carried to her bower, by a treacherous servant, in which he initially introduced himself, as a companion of Miss Constance Philippa Zinn (now in permanent residence on the West Coast), from whom he had heard a great deal about her: the memory of sweet Delphine Marti­neau, of the laughing brown eyes and sly dimpled cheeks, being sacrosanct in Constance Philippa's heart.

Thus the bizarre and immoral “courtship” was undertaken; and if we might applaud Delphine's early resistance—the unhappy but loyal wife did not reply to Philippe Fox's first three letters—we cannot but sigh with resignation, as, Fox's entreaties ever growing more emboldened, and more resourceful, the invalid
did
succumb: at the first, stoutly asserting that she was, for better and worse, in sickness and in health,
married
to Justin Ormond, and that, being a Christian woman, she could not take her vows casually; and then, as the weeks progressed, and Fox declared himself by no means a
temporary
presence in Bloodsmoor, but, as her “devoted courtier,” as
permanent
a presence as she might wish, the disloyal wife and mother began to waver, and, in her scribbled missives, hint that—perhaps—she
might
respond to his plea, and
study him,
as best she could, on the lawn beneath her window, at an appoint'd time.

Well! I trust I am not being o'erly cynical, in observing that, as Jesus in His wisdom bade us not to gaze upon one another, with lust, lest we commit adultery in our hearts, so it was inevitable, should Mrs. Ormond comply with Mr. Fox's petition, to gaze upon
him,
in outlaw circumstances, lust would be experienced: and adultery committed, in the heart.

And thus it was.

And thus there was initiated one of the ugliest of Bloodsmoor scandals of recent decades: the more intolerable, in that Philippe Fox was not only intimately associated with Kidde­master Hall, but was amongst Bloodsmoor persons of consequence,
believed to be Constance Philippa in disguise.
So that the criminal elopement, which took place on a rain-lash'd, gusty All Hallows Eve, was widely talked of, as not merely
adulterous,
but
unnatural.

 

ALAS! I CANNOT
but deem it an act of God's great mercy, that John Quincy Zinn had become, with the darkening skies of autumn, increasingly indifferent to the vanities of the world: so mesmerized with his task of achieving the formula for a synthesis of the
perpetual-motion engine,
and the government's request for unfailing
detonations at a distance,
that he had not the energy to be wounded by his wife's eccentric behavior, in the New England states (where she had joined forces with the hellish pair, Mrs. Abba Goold Woolson, and the “Presidential candidate” Miss Elaine Cottler, in their muckraking activities in the Dress Reform Movement); and had not, of course, the ability to
care greatly,
about his youngest daughter's conversion to Christian standards of charity, love, and peaceableness of spirit, no more than he could, about the sinister Philippe Fox, and his carnal appetites. True, J.Q.Z. was a dying man, and may well have known it: but he directed his limited strength into those channels that transcended the domestic, and the merely finite, with no less zeal than ever, and daily vowed, that
he would achieve his human mission on earth
—before God called him thither.

So it came about, albeit after numerous petitions, that the suggestible Mrs. Ormond consented to peer out the single small window of her room, at her courtier some distance below on the grass: that interloper who did not, of course, dare to appear in wholesome daylight; but only by the stealthy light of the moon. It may have been that the faithless wife and mother imagined her Christian fortitude to be of sufficient quality, to allow her to withstand temptation; but, as she gazed through the window (a small, but quaint, orifice, oval in shape, dimmed by cobwebs, and perhaps twenty inches in circumference), at the comely figure of Philippe Fox on the lawn below, something wicked evidently transpired in her heart, and the tragedy was conceived.

With self-conscious dignity Philippe Fox emerged from the shadows, to stand boldly in the moonlight, and to lift his handsome face toward the window. Tho' he could not see the object of his illicit regard, the expression of rapt—nay, mesmerized—passion, that radiated across his strong-boned countenance, was unmistakable.

“Delphine!” So he recklessly spoke, lifting one gloved hand: with such compelling force that Mrs. Ormond acted at once in like manner, raising and pressing her hand against the window pane,
that the white palm expose itself,
to the hungry eye of the man below.

 

THE RESCUE—WHICH WAS,
in truth, no more than a sordid elopement—took place some weeks later, when, by prearrangement, Philippe Fox gained entrance to Mt. Espérance, and informed the astonish'd Mr. Ormond that he had been sent “to fetch his wife back home: for her mother was gravely ill.”

Mr. Ormond, a flaccid-faced gentleman in his fifties, with a veined nose, muttonchop whiskers closely trimmed, and a small high rotund belly, grew visibly pale at the sight of this intruder; and shrank slightly from him, tho' Fox's pistol was well hidden inside his coat.

“Sir, I fail to understand,” Mr. Ormond said, steadying himself against a chair; “you say you have been sent,
to fetch my wife back home?
But she is
my wife,
sir; and Mt. Espérance is her home.”

Philippe Fox advanced upon him, smiling, and, as Mr. Ormond cowered, strode past, to the broad spiral staircase, saying the while: “You are wise, Mr. Ormond, to raise no objections, since Mrs. Ormond is greatly wanted, at home, and I have been instructed, not to return without her. And so I must act quickly; and beg your pardon, that I have no time for idle persiflage.” Whereupon the arrogant interloper ascended the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, whilst Mr. Ormond, greatly agitated, could not think, whether to follow him upstairs, or run back down, to seek aid from the servants. (In truth, Mr. Ormond was suffering at this time from an undiagnosed ailment of the nerves, bowels, and spleen, which severely exacerbated his gout, and his temperamental inclination toward the morbid: so that, staring aghast at the lithe, sinuous figure of Philippe Fox, he could not have sworn, whether this creature was a
mortal man,
or a
phantom.
)

While the distraught husband stood paralyzed on the stair, Philippe Fox made his way with great alacrity to the third floor of the mansion, and to the turret: and, commanding Mrs. Ormond to stand back from the door, as much as she was capable, he drew out his gun, and fired once, twice, and a third time, that he might destroy the lock and swing the heavy door open, with no difficulty.

Thus it happened, that rude gunshots shattered the majestic calm of Mt. Espérance, one of the great old homes of Bloodsmoor!—and, to their shame be it recorded, every servant in Mr. Ormond's employ remained in hiding, out of quavering cowardice, or prearrangement with the seducer.

Poor Mr. Ormond screamed in terror for help, that he might be saved from being murdered “by the fiend,” but no help was forthcoming.

“It cannot be—I will not allow it—I am master here—I am not to be shot down, in my own house—” the slack-faced husband babbled, the while grasping at the stairway railing, as if he had turned to stone.

Yet, upstairs, Philippe Fox heard not a word, and seemed to have no care, that he might be apprehended and thrown into prison, for this intolerable trespass. “Come, Delphine,” he said, his deep voice but lightly trembling, “we have a considerable distance to travel, and the hour is late.” He strode into the dim-lit bower, which smelled, alas, of time, and dust, and sickness, and neglect; and with great gallantry extended his arm, that Mrs. Ormond might grasp it. “Come, come! Too many years have passed,” Fox murmured.

After but a moment's hesitation, the faithless wife took the proffered arm; and leaned heavily onto it, with a sob; and allowed herself to be led out into the corridor.

Was there ever so crass, so emphatic, so
public
a fall!

Ah, but
was
this woman Delphine Martineau, the pretty, vivacious, brown-eyed miss of so many years ago? A dead-white, drawn, somewhat ravaged beauty, the which one might have had to examine closely, to see it
were
beauty; eyes puffed and red-rimmed, from crying; a mouth that appeared distended, in a smile of fear, or an indecipherable grimace; and, most alarming of all, the once-lustrous mahogany hair now liberally threaded with gray, and
falling in a disheveled tumble to her waist.

Philippe Fox gazed upon this apparition, and stared, and, inexplicably, felt his heart as wondrously pierced, as if this woman of mature years, and desperate straits, were but a high-spirited girl of seventeen: and no time at all had passed!

“My Delphine!” he murmured, agape, grasping both her cold hands in his. “My girl! It is you! But come, come: the hour is late: our carriage awaits, and the remainder of our lives.”

And so, this infamous couple descended the stair, upon which, near the first-floor landing, the betrayed husband now sat, his face gone piteously slack, and his eyes bulging with terror. Unhappy Mr. Ormond!—the wretched scion of a once-great Pennsylvania house! Never was he to recover from the dismayed horror of this All Hallows Eve, on which, as he would babble and mutter to all, a phantom murderer gained entrance to his house, and fired bullets at his head, and made off with his protesting wife—whom he was never to see again.