A Bloodsmoor Romance (105 page)

 

AND SO PHILIPPE
Fox and his belovèd Delphine vanished from Bloodsmoor: to the Alaskan gold mines, it was said: or to Old Mexico, or Argentina, where they lived like royalty. In any case they never returned to our historic Bloodsmoor, and sent no communications, tho', in time, I scarce know
how,
the sinister Fox managed to collect his share, after taxes and attorneys' fees, of the great Kidde­master inheritance.

EIGHTY-TWO

I
t was upon the occasion of the reading of her aunt's eccentric will, that Mrs. Prudence Zinn, knowing herself again disinherited, experienced a most queer, and pleasantly lightsome, release in her heart. So I am free—I am
freed,
the astonish'd woman thought, all the while maintaining her posture of rigidity, and her expression of stolid, and, as it were, regal disdain. Tho' these words pierced her consciousness with an uncanny authority, and tho' she scarce comprehended their import, she knew them to be incontestable; and prophetic.

“I am freed—
of them.
”

 

ALAS, HOW SHALL
we describe the trajectory of Romance? How shall we, obliged to toil in mere words, seek to illume the fleet, fluttering, gossamer sensations, elusive as the hummingbird, that course along the veins, and swell the captive heart, of the credulous? It may have been, that, seated in the Golden Oak room of her father's great house, hearing with but a detached interest the lurid tale (which did not, in truth, surprise Prudence as much as it surprised the others: tho' she would not have guessed the
rejected infant
to have been Deirdre), whereby Edwina Kidde­master made public her
disgrace,
yet, withal, her vainglorious
nobility,
Prudence cast her mind back, and back, and back, to a fateful meeting in Frothingham Square, in the study of her godfather Mr. Bayard. (Alas, long dead!—long dead.) It may have been that the now-agèd woman half closed her eyes, not in pious reverence, in regard to her deceased aunt, but in recollection of the moment in which her amaz'd eyes fell upon the manly form, and handsome countenance, of young John Quincy Zinn—then a mere boy of twenty-six: so tall! so vigorous! so animated! so
unknown!

And, it may have been, as Basil Miller's sonorous voice unfolded the remarkable confession, of that other doomed romantic heart, Prudence Zinn enjoyed, with distant amusement, the recollection of one or two stanzas of verse, composed by a woman now long deceased—ah, how
very
long, it would not do to consider!—gay, tinkling, blithe, convivial, feverish, frantic:
I am immortal! I know it! I feel it! Hope floods my heart with delight! Running on air, mad with life, dizzy, reeling, Upward I mount—faith is sight, life is feeling, Hope is the day-star of night—
And on and on the happy words tumbled, a girl's voice, a girl's shouting exuberant voice, gradually dimming, and fading, to be replaced by young Miller's words, which seemed to Prudence both pitiless, and pitiable.

I am freed of
them,
Prudence inwardly declared, and of
it.

 

ONE DAY, NOT
many months before, whilst sipping her morning coffee, and perusing the pages of the Philadelphia
Inquirer
(a newspaper she read half secretly, in obedience, still, to the dictates of her deceased father, who had entered into a bitter feud, as a consequence of political differences, with the paper's owner, and expressly forbade it on “Kidde­master soil”), Prudence came by chance upon an article, and a photograph, of such offensiveness, that she nearly spilt—nay, she
did
spill—her coffee, and heard herself laugh angrily aloud.

For here, exposed to the public's condemning gaze, and, doubtless, to its merry scorn, were some half-dozen
women
—not wishing to be termed
ladies
—who declared themselves campaigners for Dress Reform, and Woman Suffrage, and Equal Rights, and something most baffling, to Prudence's mind, a
Single Moral Standard.
Egregious enough, such a blatant display of folly—and, in their midst, none other than
Parthenope Brownrrigg,
of old!

Inwardly quaking, Prudence adjusted her reading glasses, and hurried to a window, that she might, with the aid of daylight, the better to read the extraordinary article: only to be the more gravely shaken, yet moved to childish jeering laughter, by the discovery that one of Parthenope Brownrrigg's younger companions, a woman by the name of Miss Elaine Cottler, had stepped forth publicly, with the support of the others,
to place herself as a candidate, for the Presidency of the United States!

Prudence closely studied the countenances of the women, and was disturbed, in the case of old Miss Brownrrigg in particular, to find them not greatly differing from her own—from her own, that is, and those of her numerous female relatives. One or two of the women were most aggressively plain; one was erect of carriage, and remarkably attractive—this being, Prudence gathered, the bold Miss Cottler; all were smiling—brash and arrogant smiles, indeed, considering the circumstances of their being photographed: for, to their collective shame, these women were
under arrest as common offenders, in Hartford, Connecticut.

“It should not—it must not—it cannot be allowed!” Prudence declared, thrusting the page of offensive newsprint from her, and feeling herself so o'ercome (for she was now in her seventy-sixth year, and frequently short of breath), she had need to be seated, and to calm herself in repose, for upward of ten minutes.

“It will be the end,” Prudence murmured, scarce knowing what her words meant, “the end, of
everything.
”

 

YET, AS HER
aunt's lengthy confession drew to its close, Prudence saw again that coarse photograph, and, far from being inclined to join with the others, who were now freely weeping (old Narcissa Gilpin sobbing loudest of all), she was struck with a curious wonderment, that she could recall not merely the outline of the picture, but the actual faces of the women: she could recall, with amazing clarity, certain of the statements of the Dress Reform Movement, and those of the National Women's Suffrage Association, and Mrs. Abba Goold Woolson, and Miss Elaine Cottler, and one or two more.

This extraordinary recollection flooded upon her, and for a very long time she ceased to hear her nephew's strained voice; or, indeed, the voice of old Edwina, straining through it. How many minutes passed, I cannot say, nor could Prudence have said: but, as Basil concluded the document, and the assemblage in the room murmured aloud, and the more liberally wept, Prudence Zinn spoke to herself in a startl'd voice, in which some reproach sounded: “But, I suppose, I am too old now, to run for President!”

EIGHTY-THREE

T
ho' it is but an accident of Fate, and of time, I am inclined to think it emblematic, that my chronicle draws to a close on the night of January 31, 1899: and that it concludes, not in the Octagonal House, nor in the austere splendor of old Kidde­master Hall, but in the homely and cluttered cabin above the gorge, the famed workshop of J.Q.Z.!

For here, as a snow-driven midnight approaches, we find a solitary figure; and witness the caprices of her shadow, alternately shrinking and looming against the walls, in the eerie light cast by a kerosene lamp.

A thief, an intruder, a spy of Edison's? An idolatrous disciple?

Or one of Mr. Zinn's helpmeets?

Not Samantha, who once loved her father so dearly, and so gratefully subordinated her will to his—for Samantha, alas, is a loyal wife, and a doting mother, many times over, who is, at this very moment, keeping a merry vigil with her husband, by the fireside, in their home in Guilford, Delaware: kissing, and laughing, and holding hands, and preparing to drink
an alcoholic
toast, to the New Year.

Nor Mrs. Zinn, who has, by this date, virtually abandoned her household, to take up residence, with her girlhood companion Miss Brownrrigg, in a ladies' hotel on Beacon Hill, but a block from the brownstone headquarters for the Dress Reform Movement: so brutally severing herself from her former life, that the telegram, containing the news of Mr. Zinn's rapid decline, will go astray, having been addressed to
Mrs. John Quincy Zinn,
and not to
Miss Prudence Kidde­master!
(Indeed, the callous woman will barely return to Bloodsmoor in time for the funeral.)

Nor does the lone figure belong to a simple servant girl, commanded by the weakening Mr. Zinn, to rummage through the great disorder of papers on his workbench, and locate the sheet of paper containing his most recent calculations, and bring it to him; that, on his sickbed (in truth, his deathbed), he might feverishly complete the formula, of the invention
to save the world!

Nay, it is none of these personages, but Deirdre herself: our brave and beauteous heroine of old, Deirdre Kidde­master (for such she is now called—with a sentimental, if not a legal, authority), the new mistress of Kidde­master Hall!

 

THAT OUR SENSITIVE
young lady has yet to resolve the veritable tempest in her heart (as to whether she will accept the honorable proposal of Dr. Lionel Stoughton, or the coarse entreaty of Hassan Agha), and that, indeed, much remains unresolved, in her soul, cannot concern us here: for our concern is solely with her mission, in Mr. Zinn's service, and with its puzzling outcome. (Tho' this brief chapter, of tenebrous shadows, and a kerosene lamp's feeble glow, surely contains the clue, as to which man she will marry.)

The waxen-skinned John Quincy Zinn, lying abed with the chill dignity of a tomb effigy, and wondrously alert, in his quick-darting thoughts and suspicions, had, not an hour ago, summoned his adopted daughter to the Octagonal House, and to his side: that, in a low, hoarse, methodical voice, he might bid her go at once to his workshop, despite the late hour, and the growing blizzard, to seek out a certain sheet of paper, covered in scrawled calculations,
and bring it to him:
for, he feared, he would not live out the night, and, in any case, he would not be strong enough, upon the morn, to journey out there, and complete his great work.

“I shall never finish it,” he said, in his reproachful voice, gazing at the frightened Deirdre from out his sepulchral eyes, “I shall never finish it
there.
But, perhaps, in the comfort and sanctity of my bed, and with
your
assistance—”

Deirdre acquiesced at once, giving no thought to the howling wind, or to her own premonition, that
something tragic
would occur, before dawn: on the contrary, the young heiress stooped to kiss her father on his gaunt, fevered brow, and to prop up the goose-feather pillows behind him, that he might be more comfortable. (Alas, J.Q.Z. rarely slept any longer!—but spent the interminable nights sitting, rather than lying, abed, entertaining dreams with his eyes open, the which, in his own words, proved paltry and disappointing, set beside the work that awaited him in the cabin: the final calculations pertaining to the
perpetual-motion machine,
and its principle, as applied to the phenomenon of
atom-expansion,
or
detonation
—a concept so foreign to my feeble woman's brain, I cannot pretend to describe it.)

“The victory is close at hand, and will be so sweet!—ah, so very sweet, I halfway think it might prolong my life!” the poor man murmured, for the moment so agitated, he grasped Deirdre's slender wrist in his chill fingers, and smiled upward at her. “For, do you see, it is an invention to save the world—to save our world—from all harm—from wickedness—from the Devil's camp—which will have no defense against
us,
once the explosive mechanism is perfected. My dear daughter—do you see?”

“I am not certain, Father, that I
see,
” Deirdre said, covertly wiping a tear from out her eye, “for your inventions, like your genius, have long been beyond my ability to grasp. But perhaps it is not necessary for me, as your daughter, and, should you wish, your loving nurse, to
see,
or to
comprehend:
perhaps it is only necessary for me to obey.”

“The device, once triggered, will explode effortlessly—and endlessly—and cannot, in fact,
be halted,
” Mr. Zinn said dreamily, “and that is its beauty, that neither we, nor our diabolical enemies, might halt it. I fully realize, how the ignorant scoffers joke—how they prattle of crude sorcery, and black magic, and mere wishes!—for it is incomprehensible to them, that the invisible air cushioning the earth is, in fact, a dense element, and that its unique molecular constitution may be known to us, and, by our wizardry, unlocked—unlocked, I say, in
perpetual motion,
once the device be tripped. The spectacle is so vast, it cannot be contemplated:
an endless series of detonations.
And, once begun, not to be halted; for tho' our enemies see their predicament, and the tragedy of their lot, tho' they beg for mercy, tho' we should even wish to extend them mercy—it will not be possible: nay, it will not! it
will not!
And now, my dear daughter, do you see?”

Deirdre stooped to kiss the old gentleman's fever'd brow, not shying away from the dagger-shaped birthmark, which, in sharp contrast to his waxen skin, glowed a fiery red, and appeared to throb, with an especial vehemence, at this juncture in time: the dutiful daughter stooped, and kissed his brow, and whispered consolingly: “I begin to see, dear Father.”

 

ALAS, HOW STRANGELY
brooding
J.Q.Z. has become, in recent years; how given to long silences, and secretive ruminations, and sudden outbursts of savage, mirthless laughter! The gratifying success of certain of his inventions (submarines, missiles, and e'er-more powerful bombs, of inestimable value in the war against the Spanish enemy), seems to have made very little impression upon him: a matter for pride, and gloating, rather more on the part of his manufacturer associates and investors, than on his own. (For, having been gifted with one-seventh of the famed Kidde­master fortune, what possible need has this elderly gentleman for additional wealth? What energy, even, to calculate it?)