A Bloodsmoor Romance (93 page)

All this is of course worthy of notice: but it is more crucial for our narrative, that, with the publication of
The Vision of Columbus,
Mr. Kennicott came into such renown, as to capture the attention of the exil'd “Malvinia Morloch,” then in disguise, in a small town in New Jersey, as “Malvinia Quincy,” an academic spinster, habituated to solitude, and attired, for the most part, in plain, shapeless, and decidedly unfashionable clothes. How Malvinia had lifted herself from the ignominious depths to which she had fallen—how she had rescued some small particle of self-respect, and of mental sanity, from the chaos of her life (for the last we have glimpsed of her, she was fleeing in graceless terror from the stage of the Fanshawe Theatre!) is an exemplary tale in itself, involving much hardship, and prayer, and Christian humility, over a passage of years: not all of which, I must admit, was to be revealed, upon her reconciliation with her family, and the rekindling of that courtship—so shrouded in the mists of distant romance, in 1867 or '68, it was scarce recalled by the participants!—betwixt herself, and the faithful Malcolm Kennicott.

The reader will forgive me for o'erleaping myself, in my pleasure at this unlook'd-for twist of events, and my rejoicing in the visible harmony of Our Lord's creation.

Let us return to the discreetly appoint'd main dining room of the Knickerbocker Club, upon that fateful night in January of 1899, where Mr. Malcolm Kennicott could not forestall a blush, as, withdrawing a much-folded letter, in blue stationery, from out his breast pocket (where, he confessed, he had been carrying it for nearly a half-year), he informed the incredulous Basil Miller that he had been the grateful recipient of a missive from the “lost” Malvinia Zinn—the which, under these extraordinary, indeed, unprecedented, circumstances, he thought it no violation of gentlemanly discretion, to share.

Mr. Kennicott did not, I hasten to say, hand over the letter to Basil Miller, but simply showed it to him, that he might form a glancing familiarity with the hand (which was indeed Malvinia's, so far as Basil could recall). He then proceeded to summarize and paraphrase its contents, all the while flushing in a most abash'd, and charming, manner: “. . .
Regret, and affection, and high regard for his poetic genius .
.
. and a plea for forgiveness, for the events of more than a quarter-century ago. .
.
. The wonder, and manly precision, and poetic splendor of rhyme and rhythm, displayed in the epical hymn .
.
. most astoundingly in the book devoted to Cortés. .
.
. He would not recall her, perhaps: a vain, foolish, infantile creature at that time: and she begged him now, to forgive her for the past, and forget her utterly, releasing her to that desir'd Oblivion, which, to her surprise, she found almost comfortable. Tho' by penning this letter, she was risking exposure, she felt necessitated to write, to express her
infinite relief
and
gratitude,
that he lived (for she had feared otherwise) .
.
. and her
joy,
that
The Vision of Columbus
was receiving the critical and popular acclaim, which, her feeble aesthetic judgment told her, was no more than his due.
” So greatly moved that, for a long moment, he could not continue, Mr. Kennicott shook out from his pocket a fresh linen handkerchief, with which to wipe at his eyes, beneath his somewhat misted glasses. Even Basil Miller felt constrained to swallow very hard, for he heard—ah, so clearly!—so captivatingly!—his dear lost cousin's voice therein, and summoned back her especial sweetness, and grace, and maidenly charm, which, he could not help but think, he had had a villain's hand in squandering, in bringing her to the
salon
of a “lady” of
déclassé reputation:
and in allowing her to be addressed by the notorious Orlando Vandenhoffen.

Mr. Kennicott took strength, and concluded the summary, in a broken voice, reiterating that the authoress of the letter felt compelled to
insist,
that her secret abode not be revealed; that no attempt be made, on his part, or on the part of any other, to seek her out in her exile; and that—most cruel!—the “impulsive and, it may be, unwelcome” letter
not be answered.

Greatly excited, Basil Miller asked to examine the envelope: and saw clearly that the postmark was “Lawrenceville, N.J.”

“Why, that is very close by!” he exclaimed. “But a morning's drive!”

But Mr. Kennicott took back the envelope, and folded the letter, to slip it inside, the while murmuring sadly that he could not, under any circumstances, disobey Miss Zinn's command: for he respected her too much, and, even after so many tumultuous years, loved her too much, to do so.

Basil Miller then expressed some incredulity—for it had, after all, been
many
years, since his companion had last glimpsed Malvinia.

“Nay, not so,” Mr. Kennicott said warmly, “I had quite naturally recognized her as Malvinia Morloch, and must have attended upward of one thousand performances of hers, in this city, and elsewhere: forbidding myself, I hasten to say, from ever imposing upon her, or calling attention to myself in any way, save by sending her, from time to time, trifling gifts of flowers, and trinkets, and whatnot: along with her numerous other admirers!”

You can imagine how deeply moved Basil Miller was, when the soft-voiced poet went on to explain, that he had taken his present position, with Columbia College, in order that he might dwell in Manhattan, close by Malvinia. And he had been, of course, quite devastated, in fact ill with brain fever, for some weeks, after her much-publiciz'd disappearance, and the vicious rumors that she had drowned herself.

“But Lawrenceville, New Jersey, is wonderfully close by,” Basil Miller said, with agitation, “not many miles from Princeton, I believe. We shall hire a carriage, Mr. Kennicott, and drive out there, upon the morn!”

Again Mr. Kennicott demurred, nervously stroking his chin, and blinking warm tears from out his eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Miller, I
cannot
do that: I am very sorry, but I
cannot.
You, as her cousin, would doubtless be welcome at her door; but
I—!
”

Basil Miller made a gesture of amused impatience, and pouring more wine into their depleted glasses, said in a forthright voice, of a kind that had agreeably impressed Great-Aunt Edwina, and his elders in the profession of law, in Philadelphia: “Come now, Mr. Kennicott, tho' you are a poet, you are also a man of the world: if you take so curious a stand, I shall think you more conversant with the merely
epical
amongst poetic compositions, and not the
romance.
”

 

AND THUS IT
came about, that Basil Miller discovered the first of his four lost cousins: and the reluctant, and greatly distraught, suitor of old, Mr. Kennicott, was reunited with his love! Indeed, it was Mr. Kennicott who had escorted Malvinia to Bloodsmoor, upon the occasion at hand: but, discreetly wishing to remain unobtrusive, he had chosen to take rooms at the Bloodsmoor Inn, there to await his lady-friend, and to learn of what might transpire. (That Malvinia and Mr. Kennicott were not yet joined in holy matrimony, but only engaged, will not, I trust, arouse distaste in the sensitive reader—for Malvinia had quite reformed, and would not now, I am certain, have consented to remain overnight, even in a public inn, beneath the same roof as a gentleman not her spouse. Indeed, so extreme was her revulsion, for the
bestial
side of her own nature, that she had agreed to Malcolm Ken- nicott's reiterated proposals of marriage, only on the condition that they dwell together as
sister and brother:
to which the adoring suitor gratefully agreed, having been celibate for his entire life, and rather more of the Platonic persuasion, than otherwise.)

 

THE GATHERING HAD
had scant time to compose themselves, after Malvinia's arrival, before the elderly butler announced “Mr. and Mrs. Nahum Hareton”—and there appeared Samantha!—and the treacherous apprentice Nahum: the criminal couple who had broken Mr. Zinn's heart, and now seemed, by the resolute boldness with which they entered the room, hardly repentant.

But if Malvinia had aroused surprise, at the numerous changes time had wrought, in both her meretricious beauty, and her comportment, it was quite the reverse with Samantha: arousing surprise, perhaps, that, in the years since her departure, she had changed so very little. Now a married woman of mature years, and, in fact, a mother, she nonetheless strode forward with the brazen energy of a young and headstrong girl; and so healthful was the glow of her complexion, and so childishly appealing the freckles scattered across her face, that one might have sworn she was no one other than the Samantha of old!—her father's belovèd disciple, and long the favorite of his heart.

The overjoy'd Octavia, in rushing to embrace this sister, was perhaps less unrestrained, than she had been with Malvinia: in part, because not so many years had passed, since the two had last glimps'd each other; and in part because they had not been exceedingly close. Nonetheless, Octavia's tears freely sprang, and her words of exclamatory welcome, and admiration for Samantha's appearance (for her face, now very slightly fuller than it had been, was lovely still; and her green, silk-lined traveling cloak was
most
becoming), were delightful to hear, the more so in that the elder Zinns were greeting this arrival with as much, or even more, restraint, as they had greeted Malvinia's. And there was a forc'd warmth, as well, in the exchange between Samantha and Malvinia: who, staring and blinking at each other, and dazedly smiling, might have been strangers, and never sisters at all.

One could clearly see the sharp vertical crease, that, of a sudden, appeared between Samantha's eyebrows, as she approached her parents, and made a half-curtsy before them, and bespoke her sober words of greeting. Indeed, the atmosphere was quite strained, as Mrs. Zinn responded in a voice all but inaudible, and managed but the faintest twist of her stern lips; and Mr. Zinn, now grown ghastly pale, seemed incapable of lifting his steely gaze from off the carpet at his feet, to grant this daughter the courtesy of a glance, or the murmur of a reply.

Nor did the visibly nervous Nahum fare any better: tho' some minutes were mercifully taken up, by Basil Miller's friendly conversation, and by Malvinia's show of flushed pleasure, in being introduced to her younger sister's husband, when, of course, she had not known of any marriage; and had not dreamt that any suitor would prove so convincing, as to deflect Samantha's interest from that of
invention.
Samantha, however, remained standing before her seated parents, and, at last, biting her lower lip, said in an even, tho' rather hoarse, voice: “I am sorry, Mother, and dear Father, that our lives have so evolved, as to have necessitated this meeting: and I beg your Christian forgiveness, for having come into your presence this morning, and so clearly giving you cause for displeasure.” A speech that embarrassed all, not simply for the import of its words, but for the grave silence, and tacit agreement, with which it was received by the elder Zinns.

So quickly did Deirdre—black-garbed, and discreetly veiled—follow upon the heels of the Haretons, that I have not sufficient space, or time, to inform the reader of Samantha's life, since her elopement a decade previously: save to remark that, without J.Q.Z.'s guiding genius, both Samantha and Nahum had settled in, with surprising equanimity of temperament, and some occasional laziness, to the life of
an ordinary married couple,
Samantha helping her husband out, as the spirit moved her, in his self-styled “inventor's workshop” (which dealt primarily in repairs, particularly of electrical gadgets, and horseless carriages) in the small inland town of Guilford, Delaware. Apart from the Haretons' concern with money—for their finances were always uncertain, and inflation steadily increased—and some occasional concern with their children's health, which might be seen to be only natural, it was quite remarkable, that Samantha and Nahum led so peaceable, and unambitious, a life!—after the consuming passion of the workshop above the gorge, which had, one might have thought, infected Samantha for life. Indeed, had this renegade couple but consented to allow Our Saviour into their lives, and to arrange for the proper baptism of their children in the Episcopal Church, I would be inclined to think them altogether enviable: or, at any rate, so little fired by a desire for worldly advancement, or for the vertiginous pleasures of Fame, as to constitute Christian models, of mutual love and esteem, and connubial bliss.

Yet—here is Deirdre!

The unfeeling
“sister”
Deirdre: the
adopted daughter
Deirdre:
“Deirdre of the Shadows”
that was, and is no more!

So quietly did this lithe young woman enter the room, so stealthy was her motion, it was a very long moment before her staring family quite grasped the fact of her presence—and, it may be, realized in her slender form, and in her pallid countenance, the very origin of their misfortunes.

Not a mere girl of sixteen, but a mature woman of thirty-six: and doubtless aged beyond her years, by her unseemly experiences in the wide world, the nature of which Bloodsmoor might never know, or wish to know!—how very amazing to see her there, in the Golden Oak room of Kidde­master Hall, an intruder in a world that, in opening its gates to admit her, had been grievously injur'd. And yet—there she stood: a veil of fine black lace discreetly screening her eyes.

How fitting, her breathless exclamation, which began with these words: “I am sorry—”

SEVENTY-THREE

T
he reader will be surpris'd to learn that Miss Deirdre Zinn was persuaded to respond to the classified notices that appeared with such regularity in the New York papers, and to acquit herself of her responsibilities to that generous family that, in stooping to adopt her, had unleashed such harm, by one of the most estimable personages in this chronicle:
Dr. Lionel Stoughton.