A Bloodsmoor Romance (91 page)

All this might have been adequate to stir the gentleman's compassionate distress; but it was the final, and, alas, all too brief paragraph of the obituary, that truly struck him, so that now his slender cigar
did
slip from his fingers, to roll harmlessly on the bar: this paragraph informing the reader that Miss Edwina Kidde­master had possessed a “considerable fortune, in properties, businesses, and investments, in the East,” augmented in recent years by several inheritances, and by the continued sales of her popular books; and that, by her decree, the breaking of the seal of her Last Will and Testament, was to be postponed,
until such time as her five great-nieces might assemble together, in Bloodsmoor.

“The deuce!—the
hell
—d—'d Bloodsmoor—never!”—thus spoke—nay, sputtered—the alarmed gentleman, in whom, as we see, all normal sentiments of love, Christian charity, and moral lucidity, were so gravely atrophied, by long residence in the lawless West, and, doubtless, by congenital inclination, as to cause him, at so poignant a moment, to
curse!

“Bloodsmoor:
never!
” And, so saying, indeed, spitting these words, he folded the paper over, and toss'd it down, and signaled for the bartender, that he wished another whisky-and-soda at once.

SEVENTY-ONE

Y
es, it is true: the saddening news, that Great-Aunt Edwina, tho' appearing, in Dr. Moffet's measured opinion, to “having taken a decided turn for the better,” after some months of convalescence, died one gloom-ridden January day, very early in the morning: to be vociferously mourned by her family, and the devoted household staff, and her Bloodsmoor neighbors, and her wide circle of friends and acquaintances and literary associates, along the Eastern seaboard.

The brief obituary, doubtless toss'd off by a crude-minded male journalist, whose knowledge of Miss Edwina Kidde­master's renown, and great worth, was naught but secondhand, was correct in its assertions, in the main: but could not, of course, have hinted that the elderly lady, tho' industrious as ever, in terms of her authorial labor (she had just completed a new volume,
A Compendium of Morals for All,
in spirited answer to the rival authoress Mrs. D. E. E. Brownwell's
101 Most Frequently Ask'd Questions, With Answers: A Handbook for Young Christian Americans,
one of the best-sellers of 1898), nonetheless suffered from a certain
increasing melancholy,
and
heaviness of
heart,
the which her niece Prudence had reason to attribute to the numerous tragic losses sustained in recent years. That Great-Aunt Edwina might weep over the untimely death of Little Godfrey was indeed plausible; that she might, upon occasion, weep over the “defection” of Samantha, and the “heartlessness” of Malvinia, and the “stubbornness” of Constance Philippa, and, even, the “ingratitude” of Deirdre, struck the Zinns as remarkable. In Mrs. Zinn's words, gravely uttered to her spouse, who gave every show of listening with concentration, this brooding upon their daughters must have been “as much a symptom of her afflict'd health, as an expression of her familial love—which, until these past few months, had been conspicuously absent.”

After a lengthy pause, during which time it was a distinct possibility that J.Q.Z.'s thoughts had flown far from the connubial scene in the bedchamber (husband and wife quietly preparing for bed, as they had done for many a fond decade now), Mrs. Zinn was startl'd by the
warmth,
and
sympathy,
of the reply: “But, my dear, you seem not to comprehend, that your aunt is no longer a young woman, nor even a woman of middle age. She must set her thoughts to Eternity, and doubtless regrets that she has no daughter of her own, to love, and to be lov'd by in turn: and to leave her immense fortune to.”

Prudence turned stoutly to look at her husband, who very rarely, in recent years, delivered himself of so forthright, and so pointed, a speech; and almost never, on a subject of domestic interest. Thus, his response took her somewhat aback, and caused an abash'd blush to color her cheeks; and her tone was almost humble, in replying: “You are correct, John Quincy. Would that the wealthy old spinster had one of
ours!
—for those very same purposes, which you have so reasonably cited.”

 

NOR DID THE
obituary speak of the numerous maladies the esteemed authoress had had to endure, in the final years of her life, which added greatly to her ill-temper, and doubtless stimulated her to bring lawsuits against various persons who, whether in her inflamed imagination or no, had “gravely insulted” her. Amongst these were several rival authoresses, including the o'erprolific Mrs. Brownwell; and Aunt Edwina's publisher John Twitchell & Sons, of Philadelphia; and the writer William Dean Howells, who, in Aunt Edwina's opinion, had “savagely lampoon'd and libel'd” her in a “scurrilous” novel of his, titled
Indian Summer.
She had, for a time, even considered bringing suit against her own attorney, who had dealt with her legal affairs for upward of fifty years!—but finally relented, contenting herself with discharging him, and hiring one of her nephews, Mr. Basil Miller, who had acquired, over the years, a respectable Philadelphia reputation, for both his keen mind and his discretion. “My will must be revised, and revised
ab initio
—if you recall your Latin,” the stately dowager said. So confidential did she wish the proceedings, she would not hear of conferring with Mr. Miller in even the most private of chambers, in Kidde­master Hall; but insisted that they repair to the out-of-doors, to the gazebo, where, as they spoke, they might cast their eyes freely about, on all sides, to see that no one crept near: that neither an inquisitive
servant,
nor an inquisitive
relative,
might press his ear against a wall or a locked door!

If this lamentable excess of suspicion troubled Mr. Miller, he gave no outward sign, and may even have concurred with his aunt, that her precautions were all to the good; for this estimable gentleman had considerably matured, and gained in the canny wisdom that all lawyers require, since those youthful days, so many years previous, when he had—ah, so irresponsibly!—escorted Malvinia to the theater.

Whether the increasing obsession with legal matters was a consequence of illness, or aging, I cannot say, but it was certainly the case that poor Aunt Edwina suffered a multitude of complaints, in her twilight years. None was precisely “serious”: none should have proved “fatal”: yet the accumulation of polyarthritis, and spondylosis, and spondylarthritis ankylopoietica, and neuotis, and catarrhous inflammation of the female organs, and simple discopathia (the which poor Sarah had suffered as well), and undiagnosable complications of the nerves, and chronic defatigation, surely proved too burdensome, for even that brave constitution to endure. The household was saddened, when Edwina angrily discharged the faithful Dr. Moffet, and betook herself off, in a private carriage, to numerous watering places and sanatoria—amongst them Saratoga Springs, and Margitzpara Spa, in Virginia, and the “Miracle Waters” of Lockport, New York: but was relieved when, not many weeks later, the ailing lady returned to Bloodsmoor, and summoned Dr. Moffet back, with the cynical observation that “she might as well die in familiar territory.”

Nonetheless, after the zealous physician had given Edwina one or two new medicines, and bled her substantially (for it was his diagnosis that the invalid suffered “an excessive richness of ‘plasmon' in the blood”), it seemed clear enough that she was improving: and so regained her old spirit, as to denounce him from her bed, as a “charlatan and sawbones”!

In late December of 1898, however, whether through the therapeutic purification of her blood, or through a gradual instinctive refinement of her being, as her soul drew ever nearer her Maker, the once ruddy-cheek'd dowager grew wondrously pale, until her skin was smooth and waxen, and of a saintly serenity approaching that of Grandmother Sarah Kidde­master, some years before: until, one sorrowful morning, at the very turn of the year, Dr. Moffet arrived for the seven o'clock bloodletting only to discover—alas!—
his renowned and belovèd patient expir'd in the night.

And, on the bedside table, was the very same phonographic machine that Judge Kidde­master had so earnestly employed, in
his
final days: tho' Edwina had not been recording her voice, but only listening to a well-worn disc, of the tenor Guiseppe Luigo singing Schubert's beauteous song, “Adieu! 'Tis Love's Last Greeting.” Indeed, the ingenious machine was still working, and the groov'd disc still turning, tho' silently, when the peaceful corpse was discovered—as loftily tranquil in her high canopied bed, as an angel effigy upon a tomb; with the subtlest, and most aristocratic of smiles, shaping her pallid lips.

SEVENTY-TWO

Great-nieces of the late Miss Edwina Kidde­master, of Bloodsmoor, Pennsylvania, are
URGENTLY REQUESTED
to make contact with Mr. Basil Miller, of the law firm of Southerly, Butterfield, Ruggles & Miller, Philadelphia.

T
hus the zealous Mr. Miller placed discreet notices in newspapers, and in the better journals; and he refused to stint, in employing the generous resources of the allowance stipulated for him, in traveling about in the late winter of 1899, oft with a small staff, to make inquiries after the possible whereabouts of the sisters, in numerous cities along the Eastern seaboard. “If they live—and I am determined they
do
live, each of them!—I shall locate them,” he averred, “and bring them back to Bloodsmoor.”

Yet many days passed; and weeks. And no word was received.

“It is hopeless,” Mrs. Zinn declared flatly, “not even the prospect of money can tempt them: that being, I am afraid, one aspect of the deformity of their characters, which led them astray in the first place.”

“I cannot grant that,” Mr. Miller said. “Not money but curiosity:
that
shall tempt them.”

The reader will be pleased, I hope, to learn that Mr. Miller was to be prov'd the more nearly correct, in this exchange: and that, after many weeks, and innumerable false leads and disappointments, he did succeed in discovering three of the renegade sisters—and his office was contacted, by telephone, by one “Philippe Fox,” who designated himself as an agent “empowered to represent the legal and financial interests of Miss Constance Philippa Zinn.”

And so, whether it was
money,
or
curiosity,
or
repentance;
or an unlook'd-for recrudescence of
familial love and duty,
in bosoms long thought hardened, I cannot say: nor, perhaps, could the principals themselves have lucidly stated their motives. Nonetheless they did agree, in turn, after a great deal of argument on Mr. Miller's side, in which he appealed to them as a
cousin,
and then as an
attorney,
and then, most convincingly, as a
man of the world,
to meet at a strictly appointed time, in the Golden Oak room of Kidde­master Hall, there to be witnesses to the breaking of the seal of their great-aunt's will, and to the reading of the will, and any other relevant documents on hand. “You will not regret this incursion upon your privacy,” Mr. Miller told the sisters, with whom he had personal contact, “not that I promise material reward: for I cannot. But, I think, you will
not
regret returning to Bloodsmoor, for some very interesting revelations our aunt chooses to make, from out the grave.”

Malvinia and Samantha concurred; but Deirdre, tho' modest and docile in every other respect, could not resist saying: “ ‘Our' aunt, Mr. Miller? I think you are confus'd, in the excitement of the moment: and have forgotten that I am not a Zinn by
blood,
but only by
law.
”

Mr. Miller gravely bowed. And added: “I would not, if I were you, Miss Zinn, too earnestly scorn the
law!
”

 

AND SO IT
transpired—and I cannot but choose to think it emblematic—that, on the third day of Easter Week, of 1899 (this being in late April, a most mellifluous season in our fragrant Bloodsmoor), the four “lost” sisters did meet with the fifth, and all five, in the presence of their parents, were witness to the ceremonial breaking of the seal of Miss Edwina Kidde­master's Last Will and Testament.

An historic meeting, fraught with so many startl'd glances, and sudden tears, and fierce embraces, and surprises of both a small and monumental scope, as to render me near-powerless, in attempting the task of faithfully transcribing it!—yet I must proceed, as fastidiously as possible, with the authorial hope that the larger, and distasteful, revelations to come, will not despoil for the reader, some of the small pleasures the scene affords.

Firstly, the handsome setting: the Golden Oak room of Kidde­master Hall, the which, I believe, you have not yet seen, for it was employed primarily, in the old days, as a meeting room for gentlemen—politicians, military men, business associates of the Kidde­masters, and others, mainly of the Whig persuasion, tho', I believe, some conservative Democrats did secretly join them from time to time, in the hope of steering our Ship of State through troubl'd waters. This room was paneled in the most exquisite golden oak, with a stenciled ceiling in which motifs from
Paradise Lost
were beauteously delineated, in rainbow hues; and three ponderous chandeliers, in which gold, brass, and crystal formed an agreeable harmony, and tall tapering white candles lent a distinct air of nobility. Ah, and the sun-warm'd spectacle of the stained-glass windows, in which motifs from Shakespeare's great tragedies were depicted!—these windows, from the workshop of Mr. Baines, of Philadelphia, being employed as frames for the windows of clear glass, which looked out upon one of the pastoral slopes, which dipped gently away to the Bloodsmoor River, sparkling and glinting in the sun, like a serpent so imbued with health, all his scales wink!