A Bloodsmoor Romance (42 page)

Death so gently stole into the bedchamber, and gathered her in his merciful embrace, that even Narcissa Gilpin, rapt in prayer not three feet from the expiring lady, took no note of the actual moment of her surcease. That her death was beautiful, befitting her life, none could contest: not even the surly Dr. Moffet, lingering for weeks downstairs, who had insisted to all who would listen that, had he permission to bleed Mrs. Kidde­master, and to give her medicines for the ovarian neuralgia above all else, he “would have her on her feet in no time.”

The elderly judge wept passionately for her, hiding his face in his hands. For a spell the family thought him inconsolable: again and again he moaned, “My belovèd, my angel, my dear girl,” and not even his daughter Prudence could calm him. “My Sarah, my perfect one, we will never see your likes again in Bloodsmoor—” until the poor old gentleman collapsed himself, and had to be carried to his own bedchamber, to be tended by Dr. Moffet.

After a brief consultation it was decided that an autopsy might be beneficial, in the interests of medical science, for Mrs. Kidde­master had died, after all, of no discernible disease—her numerous ailments being of a minor nature, vexing and debilitating, but not fatal. And so the dread but necessary operation was performed, with what astonishing results I can scarcely bring myself to record: it was discovered that Mrs. Kidde­master had possessed
very few inner organs, and those of a miniature, or atrophied, nature.
The torso, stomach, abdominal, and genital regions were largely hollow; and in these cavities, amidst the pools of pale pink watery blood, were some four or five organs of a size and quality that even the mortician, with his expert eye, experienced some difficulty in identifying. A tiny heart; a tiny liver, of a perplexing grayish-white hue; pebble-sized kidneys; a stomach sac of perhaps three inches in diameter; no bowels at all; a papery-thin conglobate envelope that might have been the uterus, or a genito-urinary canal of some sort, its function too coarse to explore. Having been the enviable possessor, throughout her life, of a skeleton of the most refined delicacy, Mrs. Kidde­master was found to weigh after her death only
forty-three pounds:
which figure, the mortician thought most extraordinary, a tribute as much to the lady's ascetic Christian practices of diet, as to her God-given anatomy.

Upon being given Grandmother Kidde­master's crocheted antimacassar, poor Octavia succumbed to fresh fits of sobbing; for she had loved her grandmother dearly, and had never felt worthy of the lady's especial affection. “Samantha, what shall I do; how shall I deal with such grief?” Octavia cried. “Perhaps I am guilty of having allowed Grandmother to deceive herself, as to the nature of my marital prospects!” Samantha comforted her, as best she could, and together both girls examined the crocheting: a wonderfully delicate work, giving no evidence of the lady's ebbing powers, save in its exceptional length. For, Mr. Zinn having measured it with his tape, the antimacassar was somewhat above the conventional in length, being 1,358 yards, or some three-quarters of a mile, and would present problems of practicability.

“I fear that I am not worthy of Grandmother's love, or of her final blessing,” Octavia said, dashing fresh tears from her eyes.

Pert little Samantha, staring at the crocheting, and fingering its delicate texture, sighed, and said: “You are worthier than I.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he meteoric rise to fame of “Malvinia Morloch” on the New York City stage, as one of the chief attractions of the popular Fanshawe Theatre troupe, was never commented on by her Bloodsmoor kin—for Mrs. Zinn wisely banned all mention of the renegade daughter's name in the Octagonal House, since the mere uttering of “Malvinia” would disturb Mr. Zinn, and seriously interfere with his work; and elderly Judge Kidde­master, embittered and weary, and given to sardonicism, deemed it a more useful occupation of his twilight years, to keep a close eye on the follies of his time—the Republican “Stalwarts” who wanted Grant back in the Presidency, the Democratic machinery with its boastful crooks, the idiocies of barbarians like William Henry Vanderbilt, “the richest man in the world”—and dictate his memoirs to an amanuensis, and concentrate his grandfatherly love (the meager quantity that remained) on Octavia and Samantha, the virtuous sisters. With a measured smile, and in a voice lightly tinged with gentlemanly irony, he allowed that he “anticipated with subdued hope” the next generation: and that he was prepared to enjoy his great-grandchildren, when they appeared.

Photographs of both Malvinia and Constance Philippa were carefully packed away in silver tissue, along with most of their clothes and personal possessions, for it was better so, that their betrayals be felt as
deaths;
and an appropriate period of mourning undertaken, and completed. (Mrs. Zinn, leading the servants in a flurry of housecleaning one fine day, disposed of the dressmaker's dummies that had once belonged to Malvinia and Deirdre—the one having belonged to Constance Philippa being already disposed of. Certain items of clothing that had belonged to Malvinia—handkerchiefs, sashes, veils, gloves, lace collars were given to Octavia, provided they did not upset Mr. Zinn when he happened to glance at them; Samantha having rejected them, with a contemptuous twist of her lip. And a fan or two, and a lacy morning cap, and a crimson silk sunshade, and a Turkey Morocco case with the golden clasps which—alas, so long ago!—the handsome Cheyney Du Pont de Nemours had surreptitiously given Malvinia: these pretty items Octavia kept, less for their value in themselves than as mementos of the heartless Malvinia. She tied the morning cap's strings beneath her chin, and studied herself in her mirror, and wondered: Would Malvinia laugh cruelly, to see her thus?

At the very rear of one of Malvinia's wardrobe drawers, hidden beneath a sheet of silver paper, was a small yellowed Valentine—pinks and crimsons and creamy-white adorned with strips of lace (badly yellowed as well)—not a homemade card, but charming nonetheless: the signature M.K. in tall playful letters, and quite a puzzle to Octavia: M.K.? But who was M.K.? A young man, a girl?—an older relative? The Valentine, Octavia judged, was
very
old; Malvinia must have received it many years ago; and either treasured it greatly, or had simply forgotten about it.

This too Octavia kept, in secret, hiding it beneath the tissue in one of
her
wardrobe drawers.

At times, alone in the parlor, when she was confident that no one could hear, she clumsily picked out the tunes Malvinia had played with such dash on the piano, and sang under her breath Malvinia's favorite songs—“When the Swallows Homeward Fly,” “Is There a Heart That Never Lov'd,” “Sunbeam of Summer,” “It Is Better to Laugh Than Be Sighing,” from the much-admired production of
Lucrezia Borgia
which Malvinia and several of her Philadelphia cousins had attended, at the Stadt Opera House; and her tears often fell afresh down her cheeks. The old Mother Goose book, its pages much-tattered, she again perused, tho' knowing her action futile, and in danger of arousing Mrs. Zinn's ire should she enter the parlor without warning. “It is sinful to confess, as if in defiance of Mother's wishes,” Octavia confided in Samantha, “but I miss Malvinia very, very much . . . and believe that, were she to appear in the doorway this very instant, I would forgive her everything, and hug and kiss her till she was breathless!”

Samantha, never a garrulous young lady, had become even more reticent of late, and often did not reply to Octavia's nervous chatter as if, perhaps, she was not seriously attending to it. Her thoughts she kept to herself, guarded; even her small freckled face, so apparently open, and guileless, rarely registered any emotion save that of an innocent and friendly attentiveness. That she was not altogether the childlike sister she appeared, to Octavia's eye, was evidenced by the resistance, and finally the vehemence, she put forth, when urged by both Octavia and Mrs. Zinn to move into Octavia's bedchamber—for Octavia was extremely lonely, and found it difficult to sleep at night, with no companion. But she held her ground: she resisted; she refused. In the end Mrs. Zinn acquiesced, albeit angrily, for Samantha insisted that she had need of quiet in the evenings, in order to work at the mathematical problems Mr. Zinn had assigned her. And Octavia, tho' wounded, allowed that she understood—for she
was
an inveterate chatterer.

“Is it wrong of me to miss Malvinia so very much, seeing that she has abandoned us?” Octavia asked Samantha in a whisper.

Hardly troubling to glance up from a sheet of paper on which she had scribbled the most perplexing figures and shapes, Samantha replied absently: “Not
wrong
so much as
futile.
”

 

THAT “MALVINIA MORLOCH”
became so successful a stage actress in New York, within months of her theatrical
début,
and that her bright mercurial talents continued to win praise from the most jaded of reviewers and critics, did not truly surprise Octavia, who remembered fondly her sister's childish love of singing, dancing, “dressing up,” playacting, and mimicry. At times there had been a certain frenzy to the girl's wish to perform, to however tiny an audience (often only Octavia and Pip—Pip had adored Malvinia), and her troubling wish to
draw praise and applause;
but most of the time Malvinia had been wonderfully charming, and imaginative, and amusing; and had earned the attention lavished upon her. It was impossible to be jealous of her, Octavia felt, for she was so
very
pretty, and so tirelessly spirited . . . ! Octavia had only to glance covertly at Mr. Zinn's countenance, during one of Malvinia's parlor performances, to see how paternal pride manifested itself, and to see that such pride would never be inspired by
her:
yet, such was the girl's sweetness and generosity, she felt only the tiniest pinch of envy, which was then forgotten in a burst of wild applause, as she clapped for Malvinia with the rest. (It is true that she might have liked Malvinia's numerous suitors for herself; and Mr. Du Pont de Nemours above all; but only since Malvinia had said carelessly, upon so many occasions, that she cared for none of them, and surely did not “love” a one!—whatever that vexing word “love” might mean. And even then Octavia was not
jealous.
)

In the old days, when poor Mr. Zinn had been away at the War, and his family had missed him terribly, the little girls and their mother had oft entertained themselves in the parlor, singing, and playing games, and doing pantomimes; and even at that very young age (she could not have been more than four) Malvinia had displayed considerable talent—and considerable energy. She was brash, she was bold, she was silly and funny and reckless: and her sparkling eyes and pretty flushed face and raven-dark flyaway hair (with the exquisite little widow's peak) had usually been sufficient, to deflect Mrs. Zinn's exasperation. But what inventiveness!—what hijinks! Upon one memorable occasion the saucy miss ran into the parlor with Mrs. Zinn's best Sunday hat on her head, all feathers and tulle, and a long lace doily wrapped about her tiny shoulders like a shawl, and, in a high shrill fevered voice she sang her favorite Mother Goose song, “Girls & Boys Come Out to Play,” so insistently that the laughing Mrs. Zinn finally relented, and accompanied her on the piano—

Girls & boys come out to play,

The moon doth shine as bright as day;

Leave your supper, & leave your sleep,

& come to your play-fellows in the street!

Come with a whoop,

& come with a call,

Come with a good will—or not at all!

Upon another occasion Malvinia worked up a sort of pantomime with Pip (who was costumed in the darling little sailor suit Octavia had sewed for him), that was such a success it had to be performed at her grandparents' house, for an admiring group of relatives; and how proud Mrs. Zinn had been, tho' she had tried not to show it! Upon another occasion, of a more infamous nature, two or three years later (for Mr. Zinn was now returned from the War, and gradually “becoming himself” again), impudent little Malvinia had stolen out of a closet in Kidde­master Hall an old corset from the 1780's, which had evidently belonged to Judge Kidde­master's mother, and she had frolicked about
inside it,
as if wearing it, rolling her eyes and poking out her pink little tongue and acting, in short, supremely silly—until her mother put an abrupt end to the performance, and ushered the child off to bed. (The old buckram corset, tho' much derided in modern times, surely had its advantageous qualities; and was, in my opinion, stouter, more reliable, and generally more effective, than the “streamlined” corsets worn by the ladies of the 1870's and 1880's. Its construction was simple and forthright: betwixt an external covering of firm worsted cloth, and a lining of strong white linen, bound together on the edges with white kid, were ranged a number of stiff whalebones—I once counted one hundred, before giving up—placed close beside each other, with rows of white stitching set between. Seven segments, or gores, divided the stays from top to bottom, and gave them their unique shape, for which they were prized by our ancestors. Stiff and thick and agreeably substantial, tho' a trifle weighty, the buckram corset was laced behind with a leather string, tied to the eyelet-holes, while a broad wooden busk kept the long front as straight and imposing as possible. One has only to consult Copley's paintings, to note the striking effect, in the bodice particularly; and the few remaining works of our “American Hogarth,” the brilliant John Lewis Krimmel.) Leaping about inside this stiff garment, the audacious little Malvinia had tried to sing “O What Have You Got for Dinner, Mrs. Bond,” but managed only one chorus—

Mrs. Bond went to the duck pond in a rage,