A Bloodsmoor Romance (14 page)

Deirdre was evidently the victim, as well, of unusual nightmares, and distressing
floating dreams,
which had the effect of quite terrorizing her, for she was certain that ghosts were responsible; and their malevolence was all the more wicked, in that they could not be precisely seen, but only sensed. Mr. Zinn was loath to allow such observations to be voiced, for, as a man of science and rationality, he deplored superstition, and found it very hard to accept that the
supernatural,
in any guise, had to do with these curious events. “The Spirit presiding over the universe, and immanent in every breath we draw, is not, by any wildness of the imagination, a deceitful force,” Mr. Zinn said, “nor must it—or
He,
as popular sentiment would say—be interpreted, as springing out of the
supernatural,
and not the
natural.
All that we do not yet comprehend, by means of science and rationality, we are lazily accustomed to call
supernatural;
all that we know,
natural.
Thus,” he explained to his alarmed family, and to the trembling Deirdre in particular, “it is erroneous to speak of
ghost phenomena,
and you will displease me greatly, if you persist in so doing.”

All his family were in haste to apologize, and promised that, from that moment onward, they should not refer to the strange events as
supernatural;
but only as
natural.

Yet the curious manifestations not only continued, but increased in frequency, the while poor Deirdre lowly protested that she was not to blame; and quite shrank from the censorious glances of the others. “Perhaps if we administered to Deirdre a strong dose of Great-Aunt Edwina's laudanum,” Malvinia speculated, “
she
might sleep for a full night; and
we
might sleep.”

Queer wailing winds arose, in the several chimneys of the Octagonal House; and sourceless drafts of air snaked about, ofttimes following certain members of the household, and the little pet monkey, Pip—who was so affrighted, he clamored to be locked safely away in Mr. Zinn's workshop for the night. One morning, it was discovered that Great-Aunt Edwina's dressmaker's dummy had positioned itself some feet
outside
the closed door of the sewing room at Kidde­master Hall!—and one of the seamstresses confessed that, for some weeks, she had been quite frightened of it, for it gave some small simulation of life; albeit that, when actually examined, it was of course naught but paper, tape, and varnish, and thoroughly lifeless. (More generally, this sewing room at the Hall, crowded as it was with the dummies of ladies no longer living, was a cause of both uneasiness and alarm to the Zinn girls, from childhood onward. Alas, what a lesson here, for even the most brash of young women! So many female figures whose
real
selves no longer inhabited the world; such evidence of Time, and Mortality, and the fickleness of Fashion! Upon one occasion, some years earlier, Malvinia had examined the small, squat, and, indeed, stunted-appearing, dummy once belonging to her great-great-grandmother Lydia Burr Kidde­master, and expressed some derisory doubt, as to whether it was a
human dummy,
or not. Whereupon Octavia said, disapproving: “Should you like one of our descendants someday to mock your figure, in such wise?” And Malvinia pertly replied: “
My
figure, dear Octavia, is as close to perfection, as nature, art, and craft, might devise: and I find it very difficult to think, that it shall ever be
unfashionable.
”)

Pursuant to this bewildering incident involving Great-Aunt Edwina's dummy, a flurry of similar manifestations occurred at the Hall, to the great vexation of the elderly inhabitants, who complained that the house was, by degrees, becoming haunted: no matter that John Quincy Zinn insisted otherwise. Indeed, Great-Aunt Edwina, pressing a beringed hand to her heaving bosom, bluntly contradicted Mr. Zinn to his face, claiming that his
adopted child
was certainly responsible for the mischief: being not only
haunted,
perhaps, but
damn'd!

(I am sorry to be forced to employ that particular word, in this, or any other, context: for it strikes the ear most harshly, and cannot fail to give offense, to younger readers especially, and to members of the female sex. I believe it to be a measure of Miss Edwina Kidde­master's sovereignty, at home and abroad, that she, alone of all ladies, might utter this startling word, in all confidence of escaping censure: nay, with every assurance of transcending it!—her gaze stern as a sphinx's, her lips resolutely pursed, her figure stolid as that of an alabaster angel of wrath.)

Mr. Zinn was taken aback, by both this sobering word, with its grave theological weight, and Miss Kidde­master's vehemence in uttering it; but he managed to reply, forthrightly, yet courteously, that it was quite unjust to speak in this wise of his daughter, who was altogether innocent, and, in any case, a
great-niece
of Miss Kidde­master's—and therefore to be treated with some consideration.

“Indeed, Mr. Zinn,” the marble-brow'd lady replied, “the girl may be a daughter of yours; but she is not, by any liberality of law or custom, a great-niece of mine.”

 

I AM COMPELLED
to pause very briefly, to explain to the reader that Miss Edwina Kidde­master was a most formidable presence, in Kidde­master Hall, and in Bloodsmoor in general. At the time of our narrative's commencement, she was in her late fifties, as to age, and rumored to be exceptionally wealthy, possessing a fortune, as a consequence of her literary activities, well beyond that which was hers by birth, as a Kidde­master. Her first book,
The Young Lady's Friend: A Compendium of Correct Forms,
had been rapidly penned in the authoress's twenty-first year (although not published for many years), in angry response to what she saw to be a decided loosening of morals,
even amongst her cousins,
during the administration of Martin Van Buren: the most valuable chapter in the manual having to do with proper behavior at balls. (Many a young lady, and her anxious mother, consulted this popular book, to learn that whilst there was nothing inherently indecent about the waltz, it was a matter of great importance that a gentleman never encircle the lady's waist
until the dance begins,
and drop his arms at once when the dance ends.)

Following close upon this auspicious
début
was a related study,
A Guide to Proper Christian Behavior Amongst Young Persons,
which was even more successful, by subscription publication; and so, with the passage of years, book followed upon book, and Miss Kidde­master undertook a column in
The Ladies' Home Journal,
under the pen-name “Miss K.” which, modestly titled “On Etiquette,” came to have enormous influence on the genteel classes, involving not only ladies, but gentlemen as well. Thus, it is not erroneous to state that the girls' great-aunt was renowed, in her own right, quite apart from her Kidde­master heritage; and that her word fell with the weight of law, in all domestic matters.

Certain detractors of the authoress, including, upon occasion, her own brother Godfrey, observed that Miss Edwina Kidde­master, while being a stern authority on etiquette for others, frequently rose above it herself: having been known to slip quietly from a gathering, before leave-taking was proper; and to introduce certain subjects—party politics, and the tariff, and the scandal of the unions—generally forbidden in mixed company, in the cultivated classes. Godfrey Kidde­master also speculated, somewhat too freely, as to whether his sister was mad, or merely ambitious, in that she worked so assiduously at her writing desk, whilst the other ladies of her circle occupied themselves with visits, and teas, and charity work, and religion, and fancywork of divers kinds: for he believed it to be quite baffling, that any Kidde­master should feel the impulse to work, still less to earn money; and fame, of course, was naught but vulgar.

Thus, when Great-Aunt Edwina declared that Deirdre was haunted, or damn'd, the statement was taken up with some alarm, on the part of the Zinns: for Mrs. Zinn knew herself to be a favored inheritrix of her aunt's fortune, and did not wish to offend her. (Unfortunately, over the years, Great-Aunt Edwina had oft expressed forthright disapproval of the Zinn daughters, who seemed unable to please her, no matter how hard they were encouraged to try. Constance Philippa was “uncouth and mannish, as to her carriage”; Octavia, whilst sweet, and agreeably docile, somewhat alarmed the eye, as a consequence of her “corporeal precocity”; Malvinia was “spoiled, headstrong, and vain,” despite her beauty; and Samantha, with her stubborn “o'erexertion of the brain,” could not fail to displease.)

In time, the disconcerting and unexplain'd phenomena abated; and finally came to an end, not long after Deirdre's fifteenth birthday. Yet it was upward of a half-year before Great-Aunt Edwina condescended to allow Deirdre in the same room with her: and her manner, it hardly needs to be said, remained distinctly formal.

 

THE WHILE THE
invisible manifestations gradually disappeared, poor Deirdre continued to suffer, on the average of thrice a month, nightmares of a singularly vivid type: oft waking Samantha from a deep slumber, with her childlike whimpering, and squirming, and pleas. “No no no no I will not oh please no I cannot,” the stricken girl cried, thrashing about in her sleep, “no no no I cannot come with you I do not belong to you oh please you must leave me alone,” as the frightened Samantha made every effort to wake her, sometimes rewarded, for her pains, by a blow to the face or chest.

Nonetheless, Samantha persisted, knowing it her sisterly, and her Christian, duty, and did as well as she might to comfort the wretched child, who oft hid her warm face in her hands, and wept, all uncontrollably, for long minutes at a time. By judicious inquiry Samantha was able to piece together the substance of the dream: a stranger accosted Deirdre, calling her his daughter, and cursing, and shouting, and insisting that she accompany him, on the back of his horse, to
HELL ITSELF.

Most puzzling, this strange gentleman—bearded, and wearing a soiled and torn uniform, of an officer in the Cavalry—was
not
Mr. Bonner! Nor could Deirdre explain who he might be, and why he was so angry, and why he had fastened upon
her,
as his daughter, who would accompany him to that unspeakable region, abandoned by God.

On the very eve of that calamitous day, in the autumn of 1879, poor Deirdre was subjected to this remarkable nightmare again: and allowed herself to be comforted by Samantha, who insisted that the “Raging Captain” (for thus he had come to be called) was but a
dream-figment,
and not to be feared. So distraught was Deirdre she seemed not to hear, however, and continued her weeping, and protesting, in such wise: “He has no right to call me his daughter, and to curse, and to swear, and to make such wicked threats!—for he is no one I know, or have ever chanc'd to gaze upon, in this lifetime. But how piteous, for I saw, for the first time, how badly he was wounded!—tho' he would hide it from me—the black blood springing forth, from a wound in his chest—and yet he is no one I know—surely he is nothing human, but a very devil out of Hell! Nay,” the near-hysterical girl murmured, her face streaming tears, “I
will not
go to him: I
will not
succumb.”

“Of course you will not,” Samantha sensibly concurred, “for, as I have said, he is but a dream; and, in any case, you have Father to protect you.”

“Father?”
Deirdre whispered, lifting her head.

Samantha spoke in a consoling voice to her, explaining that she had suffered naught but a mental illusion of some kind; a phantasmagoria, lacking material substance; a mere wisp of thought. “For you know, Deirdre,” Samantha said, “that ghosts do not exist, and that there is nothing to be accurately termed the
supernatural,
as Father has explained. A dream is but a mental fancy, dimly comprehended by our science: it has the power to frighten, with its
seeming
authenticity, and yet, as you must understand, it has far less reality than the furnishings in this room; or your own nightcap, which has, I fear, been knocked awry on your head—do allow me to adjust it.”

“You are correct,” Deirdre murmured, shivering in Samantha's arms, “you are very wise, and very kind, like all of your family: yet, tho' I understand fully all you have said, and acquiesce to its plausibility, why am I so chill?—so numb?—so apprehensive?—so aware, of
his
loathsome presence, in this very room?”

“It is but a phantasmagoria,” Samantha said, chiding, “and you are a very silly young lady, to persist in fearing it.”

 

IT WAS THIS
ominous exchange, with its o'erwrought and unwholesome emotions, which Samantha was forced to recall, not eighteen hours afterward: whilst seated thunderstruck in the gazebo, beside her sisters, as the outlaw balloon approached the wayward Deirdre!

Alas, that she could not draw sufficient breath, to cry out a warning: until it was too late, and the crude mechanism had alighted, and the balloonist's greedy arms had seized hold of Deirdre, to pull her struggling into the basket; and away—to what region of
Earth,
or
Hell,
I know not.

EIGHT

T
hus it was, that the unnamed and unidentified abductor, clad all in black, and manning a tall black silken balloon, of sinister elegance, came for Miss Deirdre Zinn at approximately the hour of seven o'clock in the evening, on the 23 September 1879: and so swift was his assault upon her, as she stood all unwitting on the riverbank, and so unerring his maneuvers, that he was able to pull her helpless into the balloon's basket, and escape within scant seconds!—whilst her astounded sisters did naught but stare, and no one in the great Hall chanced to observe.