A Bloodsmoor Romance (54 page)

“He lives in numerous places,” Mrs. Bonner said. “But you must obey me, Deirdre: and come home directly from school. Do you hear?”

“Will the Captain get me,” Deirdre asked, gazing at her mother with enormous gray imploring eyes, “if I am naughty? If I disobey?”

“I have said the Captain will not ‘get' you—or anyone,” Mrs. Bonner said, embracing the frightened child, “but you
must
obey, Deirdre, do you understand? Otherwise—otherwise—I cannot promise—I do not know what will happen!”

 

ALAS, AS IT
turned out, both Mr. and Mrs. Bonner were to be carried off, in the typhoid epidemic of 1873, along with some thirty other hapless persons in Bloodsmoor; and the nine-year-old Deirdre was to become, within a fortnight, an orphan—albeit one under the protection of the Reverend Hewett and his wife, who had vowed to the dying Mrs. Bonner (a piteous sight, with her mouth an angry mass of fever blisters, and her eyes deepset in their dark sockets, and her body wasted away to mere skin and bones with the merciless high fever, and the intestinal hemorrhaging) that they would not allow the civil authorities to place Deirdre in an orphanage. “She must be provided for—she is of noble blood—she cannot—cannot—be thrown into the abyss,” the delirious woman raved; and it was all the nurses could do, to quiet her, and to restore her soul to some semblance of calm, that she might die in peace.

Poor Deirdre!—poor bereft child!

Yet it had not been many weeks before, after a long Sunday ramble with Mr. and Mrs. Bonner, when the three of them happened upon John Quincy Zinn, that Deirdre had seen, in a waking dream of a particularly vivid sort, the vast Shadow World o'ertaking her belovèd parents, tho' of course the innocent child could not have known the import of the vision, at that time, or the terrible suffering and grief it would entail for all.

Their joyful Sunday ramble had taken them along the river, somewhat farther than their customary walk (for the March air was agreeably temperate, and the sunshine encouraging, and little Deirdre would run ahead, shouting and laughing, and forcing her parents to follow), so that, without knowing it, they found themselves in the area called Kidde­master Common, not very distant from the Bloodsmoor Gorge: private land, strictly speaking, yet open to the public for such rambles and hikes and Sunday excursions. (Hunting of any kind was naturally forbidden, and the Judge's several gameskeepers were quite justified in expelling from the territory any persons who struck them as undesirable: there having been, during the course of many decades, a number of unfortunate shooting accidents—the Kidde­master gameskeepers being somewhat o'erzealous in their wish to protect their masters' property, and their masters' game, against incursions from commoners.)

Deirdre ran ahead, an enchanting sight in her pretty yellow coat and lambswool bonnet, and little brown boots, and Mr. and Mrs. Bonner followed, Mrs. Bonner's arm linked firmly through Mr. Bonner's, in the very image of family contentment. Indeed, Herman and Catherine Bonner, of whom so relatively little is known, save their ages (forty and thirty-seven, respectively), and their religious devotion, and love for their daughter, struck those villagers who happened to see them, at such times, besporting themselves in innocent familial bliss, as
upstanding
and
excellent
Christians: not physically handsome, perhaps (for Mr. Bonner was decidedly undersized, with a very narrow, as it were pushed-in countenance; and Mrs. Bonner was hefty and foursquare, with a moon face, and a rather mottled complexion—so very different, one cannot help but observe, from little Deirdre!), nor what might be called, in vulgar parlance,
sharpness
of mind or wit. Nonetheless, they were God-fearing Christians, and faithful members of Trinity Church parish, and Mr. Bonner was said to have acquitted himself fully, and without complaint, of his managerial responsibilities at the Kidde­master factory—earning an unusual measure of praise from his rather exacting superiors, and, upon the occasion of his untimely death, the expression of deep regret, and the observation that “it would be difficult indeed, to replace so dutiful, and so loyal, an employee.”

Bloodsmoor Gorge, as the reader might know, is a region of notoriously craggy terrain, susceptible to sudden fog, chill winds, and inexplicable drops of temperature. There are eerie chasms that appear to open into the very bowels of the earth, and severe cliffs and overhangs, and towerlike abutments of granite and flint, stirring to the eye, but formidable as well, and oft disturbing. It is, in short, as picturesque a place as one, nursed on romantic expectations, might wish: rather too picturesque, in fact, if one's sensibilities naturally curve toward the moderate and the civilized, and flinch from the boldly savage.

The nine-year-old Deirdre ran all unheeding into this place of brute exposed boulders, and her parents, having called after her to no avail, were obliged to follow. Their mood was sunny and good-hearted, for the March day was remarkably warm, and they saw no danger in their impetuous little girl's unleashed energies, for they oft hiked and rambled in fairly rough fields, and, upon more than one occasion, imagined themselves lost—or nearly so—in the oak and beech and ash forests that surrounded Bloodsmoor Village.

So they followed, Mrs. Bonner's arm still linked with Mr. Bonner's, in a gesture of wifely dependency, and harmless public affection, and had no serious thought of Deirdre's becoming lost; until such time as they realized that the cheery yellow coat was not in view, and that, as they called out, “Deirdre! Deirdre!” their voices were drowned out by the low dull thunderous roar of falling water.

Naturally Deirdre's parents became immediately concerned, and Mrs. Bonner, being of a somewhat excitable temperament, inclining, it may be, toward the hysteric, upon the occasion of what she conceived to be a
physical
threat to her child, shouted most vociferously: for what if Deirdre should slip and twist her ankle, or break her fragile leg, on the brute outcropping of rock; what if—God in His mercy forbid!—she should lose her footing, and tumble head-on into one of the cavernous tunnels in which chill foaming water plunged, and quite disappear from view!

The Bonners hurried after their impetuous child, calling her name again and again, oft imagining they had caught sight of her just ahead—her yellow coat, her pretty white bonnet—and then bitterly disappointed, and their strenuous efforts redoubled. “Deirdre! Deirdre! Do you hear? Where are you? Our dear child—
do
you hear? Are you hiding? Deirdre—”

The queerest vegetation grew in the gorge, or along its steep sides—nameless gnarled trees, great spiky bushes and shrubs, and rushes, and sere grasses of all kinds, in appearance as sharp as swords—vegetation that looked, to the botanically untrained eye at least, uncannily o'ersized, as if looming out of a dream landscape. Yet there was beauty withal—I am obliged not to mislead the reader: a lush barbaric beauty of falls, and steep chasms, and shadowed granite cliffs, and enormous beech trees that seemed to possess, in their innumerable branches, and sturdy trunks, the magical authority of mythic creatures of old . . . giants, or gods of a kind, sheerly pagan, and unspeakable to envision. . . .

Just as the Bonners' concern threatened to heighten to panic, they emerged from the boulder-strewn terrain, to a sort of plateau, composed of flat granite outcroppings, and there saw, to their immense relief, the yellow coat of their child!—with what exclamations of joy, we can well imagine, whether parents ourselves or no. And yet, in the very next instant, they were alarmed to see that the child was not alone, but engaged in conversation with a stranger: an extraordinarily tall and sturdily built man, with striking fair hair, and a prominent beard, not immediately recognizable by his attire as a
gentleman.
(For this personage not only wore a somewhat rustic costume, consisting of a leather jacket, and untapered trousers, but was
hatless
—indeed, his blond hair shone brilliantly in the sunshine, and seemed, of a sudden, almost preternatural.)

Little Deirdre and the tall stranger spoke together with evident animation, the child chattering happily away, no doubt in her usual airy prattle, and the strange man bent over her, fingers outspread on his thighs, bearded face bobbing in amused agreement. A warm scene; a scene affording vast relief, and not a little joy; and yet, in the next moment, both the Bonners were seized with a sudden terror . . . for this masculine figure had about it a quality
not quite normal.

It may have been an accident of the vibrant light, or a consequence of the Bonners' frayed nerves, but the stranger looming over their daughter appeared to be unnaturally tall—perhaps ten feet, or more—and his broad smiling countenance was too smiling, having the effect, very nearly, of a beam or beacon. The blond locks, too, as they rippled in an imperceptible breeze, did glow with an extraordinary ferocity. Was this creature a wizard of some sort?—a sorcerer—a male witch—the very embodiment, it seemed, of the gorge's ominous atmosphere? Yet so sturdy and broad-shouldered was the man, and so generously did his deep laughter sound, that he could not, certainly, have been anything so insubstantial, so pitifully meager, as a
ghost!

Drawing bravely near, however, the trembling Bonners saw, in the next instant, to what we can only characterize as their enormous relief, that the man was not in truth a stranger: and, indeed, he
was
a gentleman of the first rank: none other than John Quincy Zinn.

 

A HAPPY CONCLUSION,
then, to an episode fraught with more than a little alarm: one's heart swells with joy, to see again Mr. and Mrs. Bonner hurrying to their naughty child's side, and sweeping her up in an embrace, all the while exclaiming, and admonishing, and fairly gasping with relief, and simple gratitude, and protestations of apology uttered to Mr. Zinn!—for the moment was an emotional one, verging upon the inchoate, and the Bonners are to be forgiven if their hearts pounded most wildly, and tears sprang into their eyes, with an admixture of joy, relief, and parental reprehension.

In an instant, however, all was clear. All was explained, and quite straightforward. Deirdre had wandered onto the plateau of flat rocks, and Mr. Zinn, enraptured by the silence, and completely caught up, as he phrased it, in the “solitude of the Divine Eye,” turned to see her—with some surprise at first (for naturally he did not expect to see a child in that wild place, or any human figure at all), and then with delight, and amusement. For what a charming little miss Deirdre was, in her lambswool bonnet, and her smart calfskin boots, new that past Christmas!

The Bonners, conscious of their intrusion into Mr. Zinn's reverie (it being obvious to them that the renowned inventor had been startl'd out of a deep meditation, and no mere idle daydream), and conscious even more painfully of their gravely disparate social status, would have hastened back home immediately, their little girl firmly in tow, had not the handsome Mr. Zinn, with the aristocratic charity of his in-law Kidde­masters, and the yet more impressive spontaneity of friendliness, of his own sunny nature, invited them all to his workshop: there to partake of tea and a light repast, and a few minutes' much-needed rest, before they began their hike home.

The Bonners declined this gracious invitation, with many a blush and genteel protestation; but Mr. Zinn so insisted, and Deirdre grew so lively in her insistence, that, after some minutes, the Bonners acquiesced, and, Mr. Bonner carrying the somwhat o'erwrought child in his arms, they repaired to the cabin, not one hundred yards distant, on a sturdy granite promontory overlooking the gorge's deepest chasm.

The cabin was trim and foursquare, made of plain, stolid, ordinary birch logs, in the weathertight fashion first demonstrated, in the New World of the mid-1600's, by the Swedish and Finnish pioneers, and quite unknown—if legendary history tells truth—to both English and German, and even Dutch, settlers. Mr. and Mrs. Bonner, greatly pleased with Mr. Zinn's hospitality, enjoyed the visit less demonstrably than did little Deirdre: but were pleased nonetheless, to be offered fresh Ceylon tea, and delicious date-nut squares baked (as Mr. Zinn but casually mentioned) by Mrs. Zinn herself—Mrs. Zinn being of course Miss Prudence Kidde­master, the daughter of the famous Judge, and Mrs. Sarah Whitton Kidde­master, the wealthy Wilmington heiress.

The Bonners were given chairs by the small but cozy fire, and introduced to Mr. Zinn's pet monkey, Pip, that “naughty little furry-souled devil,” as Mr. Zinn fondly called him, and made to feel quite at home, despite their nervousness; and their apprehension, for which they were perhaps justified, that Deirdre would upset something in the crowded workshop, as she prowled and pranced about, Mr. Zinn sunnily ignoring her, or implicitly, as it were, encouraging her. Ah, a lovely teatime visit!—memorable, indeed historic, in the Bonners' lives!—for they would hardly have dared imagine, at the outset of their Sabbath walk, so astounding a conclusion. Yet here was the son-in-law of Judge Kidde­master speaking warmly to them, as if they were all equals, offering them more tea, and not minding that Deirdre teased and romped with Pip (who had taken to her immediately with all the vivacity of a puppy, and some of the intelligent reserve of a human adult), and even chatting with them about various highly intriguing subjects quite beyond their scope of knowledge: the likelihood of there being, within a generation, an “auto-wagen” to replace the horsedrawn carriage; the possibility of there being, in the next century at least, a revolutionary source of energy, whether solar, lunar, or prised out of the atom by main force; and the pity of it (tho' why it should be a
pity,
the Bonners did not grasp), that oil-drilling in the Titus­ville mountain range was proceeding with such rapidity, and commercial success, under the guidance of one Edwin L. Drake of the Seneca Oil Company—about whom, Mr. Zinn confessed, he knew very little, save that he felt envy for the man's achievement!