Mr. Zinn had not been able to avoid, on this important occasion, fitting himself into so elaborately proper a costume, that his very flesh chafed in rebellion, and perspiration ran in unsightly rivulets down his forehead and cheeks!—presenting so uncomfortable, and so ill, a vision, it was no wonder that his wife and daughters felt embarrassment for him, and his Kiddemaster relatives stared at him in dismay’d alarm. Yet, how was it to be prevented? John Quincy Zinn towered over most of the guests, at six feet five inches of height; he was inordinately wide-shouldered, and possessed a stiff, rather rustic, dignity, in awkward combination with an intermittent boyish pleasure, which struck some observers as possibly too eager, and too indiscriminately friendly.
For the occasion of the Kiddemasters’ tea, Mr. Zinn had been obliged, under pain of his wife’s severe displeasure, to submit to a tailor’s exasperatingly protracted services, over several weeks: an expenditure of time that greatly tormented him, in that he might have spent it far more profitably at his work, or even, as he sadly jested, in colloquy with Pip. His daughters protested that he looked so handsome, and so very noble, how could the new suit displease him? It was fashionable, it was stylish, it sported a “European” silhouette: narrow, tapering, black wool-and-flannel trousers, with the much-vaunted smooth fit, firmly secured by a rubberized strap under the foot; a black velvet coat with a pronounced nipped-in waist; a matching vest, of the same heavy velvet material; a white linen shirt so fiercely starched it had the texture of veneer, with a raised, and very stiff, collar, that cut cruelly into Mr. Zinn’s neck; and a black satin cravat, so resolutely tight, it put the poor man in mind of a noose—not the most felicitous association, in these circumstances. Despite the unseasonable warmth of the day, Mr. Zinn had no choice but to wear his old top hat, which had served him at his wedding many years previous, but did not seem, in his eyes, too clearly outmoded, despite his daughter Malvinia’s pique; and he had no choice but to jam on his hands a pair of white gloves that stank of camphor; and to jam on his large feet a pair of black leather shoes with pointed toes, that he secretly feared he had ruined some months previous, as a consequence of certain waterproofing experimentations he had been doing, on an improvised basis. (Mr. Zinn had methodically varnished the shoes, and then soaked them for five hours in a mixture of beeswax, turpentine, Burgandy pitch, and oil; with the dismaying result, they gave off a powerful medicinal odor, and might be embarrassing in close quarters, should his feet perspire. . . . Yet, he could not regret the experiment, for he believed he was very near to discovering the principle of waterproofing: and if he could then swallow his pride, and force himself to file an application at the Patent Office, he might then realize enough income to provide respectful dowries for his daughters; and to repay the debts he owed his in-laws. Had Mr. Zinn time for such commonplace matters, it would surely have been a matter of grave concern to him, that, as it was, Judge Kiddemaster was providing a modest dowry for Constance Philippa, that the Baron might not be acquiring her “for nothing,” and the old man had crudely jested, just the other day, that he was grateful for Malvinia’s exceptional beauty for, perhaps, in her case, no bribe would be necessary, to ensure a wedding.)
So far as John Quincy Zinn knew, the tea had gone well enough, and he had managed to endure any number of strained conversations with his daughter’s fiancé, whose German accent made graceful communication difficult; and with the Boston gentlemen, who had revealed themselves, to Mr. Zinn’s disappointment, as egregiously ignorant of the theoretical principles underlying electricity, odylic force, time-travel, perpetual motion, and the homely elevator, or dumbwaiter, with which Mr. Zinn was now experimenting; nor were they wholly enthusiastic about the possibility of auto-locomotives, both for the road and the air (the which Mr. Zinn could not keep from declaring would soon be “as commonplace as the horsedrawn carriage, and far more efficient”); and with his Kiddemaster, Gilpin, Whitton, Kale, and Miller in-laws, whom he found no easier to recall by name than he had upon first marrying into his wife’s vast family. All these exchanges he had forced himself to undergo, with every outward expression of social pleasure, tho’, it may be, an occasional grimace of pain, or involuntary sigh, or the distracting presence of the rivulets of perspiration on his face, gave some hint to his companions of the extreme distress he felt.
In any case, there was no guest at the tea more ecstatic with relief, when the festive event was concluding, and one might safely escape, than the father of the prospective bride: Mr. Zinn’s revulsion being so extreme, he declared he must leave at once, on foot, and would not be able to wait to accompany his family, in the accursèd brougham. “And I shall go with you,” Samantha declared, “for I am heartily sick of the Kiddemasters, and cannot wait to unpin my hat.”
Whereupon Mrs. Zinn objected, for Samantha was wearing a many-skirted, heavy dress, in cotton and poplin, with a substantial fishtail train; and, if she had any pretension of being a lady, she would never wish to go tramping through the woods, but wait with her sisters, and sit quietly, and make no further fuss.
“Mother, I assure you, I have no pretensions,” the haughty miss said, her pale, freckled face coloring warmly, “and, in any case, who would be watching? Father and I would take the river path; and I would carry my skirts all the way; and I could remain with him at the workshop, until it was time for supper.”
Mrs. Zinn heard her out, and then said: “It is quite impossible, and you know it; you are not, after all, a child any longer. You might be seen from the river, if anyone chances to be boating—you might be seen by any of the servants—you would be seen by your father, and the sight would not be attractive. So you will remain here, and do your fancywork.”
Thus it was that the Zinn girls remained behind, and Mr. Zinn impatiently departed, and the situation, at the time, appeared to be altogether natural.
(“OF COURSE YOU could not have known, my dear, you could not possibly have known,” Mrs. Zinn was to say, afterward, when her shock at the disappearance of her youngest daughter had somewhat lightened, and both grief, and rage, contended for her heart, “but the shame of it!—the shame!—the humiliation! The papers have spread the story up and down the coast. Cousin Rowena assures me they talk of nothing else in Washington, there is a rumor the Baron will reconsider his alliance, and I cannot think—I cannot bear to think—of what is being said in Philadelphia. The wretched child! Kidnapped! Despoiled! And she was not even our own!”)
TWO
O Father I dreamt that my sisters stood over my bed as I slept and though I was asleep I saw them clearly and heard their cruel whisperings and gigglings O and Father Malvinia drew out of her bodice a tiny silver scissors like the scissors in Mother’s sewing basket but much, much brighter—Father please hear me out please do not smile and kiss my forehead and turn away O Father please hear how Malvinia leaned over my bed and snipped at my breast and I cried for her to stop and she paid no heed I was awake yet unable to move even my smallest fingers and toes even my eyelids Father Dearest do not deny me I begged for her to stop but she pierced my flesh she lifted the skin away she touched my heart O O O O Father my stepsisters hate me my sisters resent me they are jealous of your love for me they whisper together about me even Octavia who is the kindest O Father they stood over my bed I saw them clearly Malvinia touched my living heart with her cold fingers and Octavia did not protest Constance Philippa merely frowned and watched Samantha drew near to observe the working of my heart I cried for Malvinia to stop but she paid no heed she pays no heed Father she broke off a piece of my heart and ate it and Ah! but this is bitter! she spat but the others drew near Octavia Constance Philippa Samantha they broke off pieces of my heart and ate How bitter, how ugly, they cried O but Father they did not heed my tears Father they hate me they resent the love you give me the little love you give me your stepdaughter the last of your children the orphan poor Deirdre poor bereaved ugly bitter Deirdre they laugh and jeer and mock How bitter it is, her heart!—her heart! they said but she ha
s nothing else to offer us they stood over my bed Father they ate of my heart Father please do not deny me please do not pretend all is well O Father please hear me please save me I cannot bear this life otherwise
THREE
Who is He, so swiftly flying?
His career no eye can see?
Who are They, in secret dying,
From their birth they cease to be?
TIME: Behold his pictur’d face!
MOMENTS: Can you count their race?
—MRS. F. L. SMITH
The outlaw balloon, manned by a pilot never to be identified, much less apprehended by the authorities and brought to justice, is all the while swiftly approaching historic Kiddemaster Hall: black, and silken, and conical of shape, of majestic tho’ sinister proportions, and silent, save for the throaty hissing of its flame!—the while the five innocent Zinn daughters, prettily seated in the gazebo above the river, busy themselves with their divers fancywork.
Here is Constance Philippa in her handsome mauve-and-ivory dress, of stiff starched piqué; here is Octavia, in many hues of pink, her square-cut neckline covered in tulle, with yet more tulle at her elbows; and Malvinia, a vision, in white mousseline-de-laine, and ruffles of silky blonde lace, and pink velvet ribbons. (The innumerable layers of frothy white of Malvinia’s dress seem hardly substance, they float so airily about her!) And Samantha somewhat plainer, in pale green; and Deirdre, in a dress of yellow satin-and-poplin, made over from a costume of Malvinia’s, and very charming indeed. Ah, if only the mellifluous afternoon would not so swiftly ebb, shading into dusk! If only the catastrophe might be prevented!
Alas, there will be no warning—and no evasion—of Fate.
“A MELANCHOLY SORT of happiness,” Malvinia observed with a sigh, and a dreamy smile, “the aftermath of a particularly gladsome occasion.”
“A happy sort of melancholy,” Constance Philippa said, unsmiling, “if one is inclined to find such gladsome occasions intolerable.”
Constance Philippa was crocheting, with no excess of industry, or concentration, a pretty pink smock for Cousin Rowena Kale’s newborn baby girl; Malvinia, delicately hiding a yawn, had just allowed her sizable square of needlepoint to fall into her lap; Octavia was humming to herself, and working, with great contentment, and exactitude, on a patchwork child’s panda, with the most mischievous black button-eyes; Samantha frowned over a towel meant to be elaborately cross-stitched in gay orange yarn; and the sullen Deirdre was crocheting, with a perceptible absence of spirit, a white antimacassar for the haircloth settee in Mrs. Zinn’s parlor.
“Why, Constance Philippa, what can you mean!” Octavia inquired of her elder sister, her eyes opened wide with amazement. “You know very well the tea was a magnificent event, and quite fitting, to mark the end of our o’erlong summer. And you, in particular, should be grateful,” she added, her lower lip trembling for a scant moment, “for you are now betrothed: and naught but happiness awaits you.”
Samantha glanced up at Octavia, and at Constance Philippa; and seemed about to speak; then thought better of it, to her credit, and resumed her somewhat clumsy work. Deirdre, however, remained with her head bowed, and worked so mechanically at her crocheting, that the hook flashed and winked most wickedly.
Malvinia sighed again, and made a very desultory effort to take up her needlepoint. “I have come to believe,” she said, “that melancholy and happiness are inextricably joined: and that, were they separate, we should soon find even happiness unspeakably dull!”
By this time, every one of the numerous guests had departed Kiddemaster Hall: and what a confus’d merriment there had been, of broughams, and victorias, and surreys, and prancing matched teams with high-flung heads! And costumed footmen with countenances so proper, they might have been painted; and bright-shining eyes, and tear-streaked cheeks, amidst farewell embraces enjoyed by the ladies. All eyes had dwelt upon Constance Philippa’s fiancé, the redoubtable Baron von Mainz, as he galloped off on his noble black steed; all eyes had followed the bronze-hued coach of the house of Du Pont de Nemours, in which Malvinia’s “young man” Cheyney, and divers members of his family, had departed for the Brandywine. Farewell, ah, farewell! For, indeed, the summery days are fast declining! The Whittons—the Kales—the Bayards—the Gilpins—the Woodruffs—Reverend and Mrs. Silas Hewett—Cousins Odille, and Hayden, and Steven, and Rowena, and Flora, and Basil—Mr. and Mrs. Martineau, and their lovely daughter Delphine—the Broomes—the Millers—the Rhinelanders—Mr. Lucius Rumford, of stately Rumford Hall—Professors Jameson, Newbold, and Lyndon, of the American Philosophical Society—and Mr. Zinn, hurrying away on foot, tugging nervously at his collar and carrying his regal top hat crushed beneath his arm. Farewell! For nothing at Kiddemaster Hall will ever be quite the same again.
For some minutes the sisters bent assiduously to their work; and then Malvinia said in a languid voice: “Father spoke well this afternoon, I believe. He is so eloquent!—and so charming, when his color is high, and his eyes glisten. His views on the future of the nation—the inevitability of progress, the evolution of perfection—were most persuasive. Yet, did you note that wizened little Professor Newbold? I thought he looked somewhat skeptical.”
“Skeptical?” Samantha asked, startled. “Why, what do you mean?”
“Perhaps it was Professor Jameson,” Malvinia said carelessly. “I cannot keep the old gentlemen straight, there are so many; and they are always staring at one!” She adjusted the luxuriant tulle veil that dropped from the brim of her hat, and picked up her needlepoint; but showed very little inclination to apply herself to her work. “A pity, though, that, as the tea commenced, and the terrace grew o’ercrowded, Father grew so warm; and his birthmark so pronounced.”
“I did not think the birthmark so very pronounced,” Octavia said, taking up her sandalwood fan, and staring at Malvinia with an expression of startl’d perplexity. “Indeed, it seemed to me that Father was unusually handsome this afternoon.”
“Oh, yes—yes—yes, of course,” Malvinia said hurriedly. “I did not mean that he was not handsome; please do not misunderstand!”
Plump, frowning Octavia began to fan herself, as she had been taught, in slow decorous movements. It may well have been that, as a consequence of numerous tidbits, consumed at the tea, she was rather uncomfortably warm, in her sturdy whalebone corset, with its innumerable metal eyelets and crossed lacing. She sighed, and said: “Ah, but the hot shortcake was delicious! Did you think so, Samantha? Deirdre? How very quiet you two are! But you did enjoy the afternoon, I hope?”
Samantha murmured a near-inaudible assent, without glancing up from her work; but Deirdre, her pale face pinched and stubborn, made no reply at all.
“Your sister has asked you a question, Deirdre,” Malvinia said sharply. “Though neither Mother nor Father is here and, I suppose, you need not o’erexert yourself, so far as courtesy is concerned, you might at least have replied, and not sit there as if you were deaf!”
“The hot shortcake—the strawberry jam—the new China tea off Uncle Vaughan’s ships—” Octavia chattered nervously. “And, yes, the exquisite fresh honey! You did have something to eat, Deirdre, I hope? Otherwise you will be feeling very faint.”
“Thank you,” Deirdre whispered. “It is kind of you to be solicitous of me; but, I assure you, I am altogether well.”
So saying, the youngest Miss Zinn lapsed into a stony silence and, staring fixedly at the crocheting in her lap, resumed her rapid mechanical work, as if she were indeed alone. I cannot think it a reasonable observation, that startling commentary of Grandmother Sarah Kiddemaster, as to this young lady’s possessing a sort of secret beauty; for, if you were to closely observe the narrowed and downturned eyes, in which naught but a froward spirit glowed, and if you were to gaze all unjudging upon the high pale forehead, marred by the untidy widow’s peak, you would have very little hope that this child might one day blossom into a beauty, to be placed beside our legendary Bloodsmoor beauties. For, harki
ng back to Dutch and Colonial times, this fertile Valley was famed for its lovely young women, of aristocratic family; and a fair number of them were Kiddemasters, as I hardly need add.
It may have been to forestall some reiterated criticism, by Malvinia, of their youngest sister’s behavior, both at the present time and at the tea (when, it seems, she had spent an inordinate amount of time hiding in a corner, and was too tongue-tied even to converse with her cousins Basil and Steven), that Octavia said warmly: “Yes, it did seem to me, that Father was particularly handsome, and eloquent, this afternoon. I felt my heart begin to beat hard, when he spoke of the future—of the next century—and his eyes shone—and his beard looked so fine, and bold—and his voice did not quaver—” She paused, fanning herself, now more hurriedly. “The professors from Boston will elect him to their Society, will they not? For it would be so cruel now—after so much anticipation, and talk—”